


Lonelyeyes

by Glitchedshade



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:40:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27482101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitchedshade/pseuds/Glitchedshade
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: White Noise

The only downside, well there were many downsides to selling yourself to The Lonely, but the only downside that occasionally latched its bitter cold claws into Peter was the apathy. Perhaps apathy is too strong a word. It’s more a numbness, he thinks, a slow freezing of his extremities before the chill touches his heart. Most of the time he doesn’t feel it. Most of the time he exists in the perpetual fog that drifts about his feet, uncaring for the ice nestled in his ribs. 

It’s frustrating, the numbness. It isn’t the pins and needles you get when you cut the blood flow from a limb. No, that you can shake out with enough movement. This is deeper, colder than that. At least with the staticy fuzz in your limbs, you still feel something . This numbness was near maddening. 

He’d thought he’d grown used to it by this point. Ages spent at sea with nothing but the lap of waves, silent crew, and creak of The Tundra ’s timbers for company harden a man to the ever-present isolation. Aboard The Tundra , he manages to exist purely alone, without longing, without that nagging desire for human contact. Hmp. Human contact. Is it fair to even call it that at this point with his humanity so far removed? Is it fair to still call it his when he cast to the fog like so many hapless sailors? Sacrificed all in the name of a patron devoted to feeding off the solitude and the fear. He condemned so many to a hopeless quarantine, wandering amidst sea-fog and the empty, lifeless sea and he felt nothing for it. Feels nothing for it. No sympathy or regret clutches at his gut. No sorrow worms into his heart. He doesn’t even feel joy or any form of satisfaction. There is no pleasure for him in service to The Lonely. There is nothing but the numbness.

It only rarely comes to a head. Like he would do for so many things, Peter would push it down or aside and simply work through it. An avatar is exceedingly busy even if they serve something as ambiguous and nebulous as The Lonely. Business occupies him for a time. It would occupy him for about two years, perhaps a decade if he kept it up and was exceedingly fortunate. Yet still, the ache for feeling something sits oppressive and thick in his chest and only sinks heavier, taking on more and more water.

Peter doesn’t mean to intrude upon Elias. He certainly doesn’t even mean to end up in the Magnus Institute but here he is, somewhere in the archives. It’s still quiet. Nothing moves. It must be late, or early. He doesn’t care. The lights are on, which means that someone is in the archives. He steps forward, letting the sole of his shoe very deliberately tap a single, quiet note on the wooden floors of the archives. A breath. A beat. The familiar prickly sensation starts in the back of his neck; the feeling of someone’s eyes on him. It’s not as strong as it usually is. Another step, deliberately placed, as if he were emerging from hiding. In some ways, he was. The Lonely’s fog clings persistently to him if he’s not careful. The feeling intensifies. So now he has his attention. Now Elias can see him clearly. 

A small smile curls the edges of his lips. It must be late. The insistent feathering at the back of his neck is...gentle almost, fatigued. In the middle of the day, Peter finds it almost oppressive and he’d rather stay within his fog bank than let Elias have his eye on him. He half considers pulling the fog back over himself that he might walk unnoticed but that’s merely an old habit. His footsteps make no further noise as he strolls down the dimly lit corridors. He only needed to announce his presence after all. He knows Elias is watching him. 

Eventually, he reaches the door labeled neatly with ‘Elias Bouchard’. He knocks once before it swings open. He only needs to ever knock once. 

“Peter,” Elias’ voice is quiet, haggard almost. Almost. Elias Bouchard would never let his voice betray fatigue, “It’s late.”

“I don’t keep a timepiece on me. You know this.”

“It wasn’t an accusation.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you then. Might I ask what you’re doing at this hour?”  
A sigh, a slight prickling again over his neck before Elias answers, “Maintaining my archives. What else do I do?”

“I was just asking to make small talk. How late is it?”

“It’s almost ten. Why are you here, Peter?”

A small smile teases its way at the corners of Peter’s mouth, “you mean to tell me you haven’t divined it from me already?”

Elias’ face betrays nothing, still firm. Green eyes flick over Peter. The prickling intensifies, spreading over his scalp, “Would you like to come in?” He steps aside, holding the door open. Peter takes the invitation and strides in, hands in the pockets of the long, navy wool coat. 

“I’d offer you tea, but I’m afraid I don’t keep any in the Archives.”

“Of course. It’d be a shame to ruin the integrity of documents you keep here by a careless mistake,” Peter turns to set his coat on the small rack by the door. A wooden chair creaks behind him as Elias settles into it. A pen scratches on the notepad Peter knows is smack in the center of the antique desk. 

“You never answered my question, Peter.” A blunt statement punctuated by the cessation of the pen’s scribblings. Eyes bore into Peter’s spine then sweep upwards. That tingle at the base of his skull again creeps over his entire scalp until it becomes akin to many fingers, kneading and pressing at his scalp. It’s pleasant in a vulnerable way. He’s not entirely keen on being vulnerable, but this? This is something else. There is a sort of...eroticism in the vulnerable here, laying himself bare before the inescapable voyeurism of Elias and Beholding. Peter almost shuts him out, but just as he’s about to, the feeling stops. He turns to look at the source of the prying. This time, a smirk curls Elias’ lips, gleaming smugly in his pale green eyes.

“So you know then.”

“Oh, I do know. You’ll forgive my expression, but I am rather intrigued how an avatar of The Lonely can feel...well, lonely.”

“It’s not loneliness, Elias. It’s more complicated than that.” He paces around to the other side of Elias’ desk and places his hands on each of the armrests so he can properly loom over the self-styled high priest of The Eye. Deep, cloudy blue eyes lock with the cold, calculating green, stolen from one head and placed in another. 

“Numbness, is it? You want me to make you feel something, Peter.” They drift up to look to him with coyness and victory written in ink. 

Peter doesn’t grace him with an answer. He doesn’t feel the smug bastard merits it. When just as he expects to feel that damned prodding at his skull again, Elias instead grips him by the lapels of the thick waistcoat and pulls him down to lock lips with him. 

It is not, by any means, a gentle kiss. After all, if one is to evoke something in a man that has mired himself into numbness, perhaps lust or at the very least shock should do the trick. The grip on Peter’s waistcoat relaxes to a more gentle hold as Elias coaxes him closer, deeper into the kiss. Lips and mouths work against each other, Elias’ guiding the barest sighs of pleasure from Peter. As he kisses him, Peter feels those fingers, kneading at his scalp, reading all of the lustful heady thoughts bubbling up from the depths of his mind, picking the locks he so meticulously placed on each and every feeling he’d shut away. That vulnerability presses into his stomach, stokes a heat there and burns at his chest, his empty, numbed chest. Faintly, somewhere else, a clock ticks at the edge of Elias’ perception.

That horrible, aching numbness is lit alight with the heat of passion, burned away as Elias deftly licks into his mouth. His grip tightens on the armrests of the chair then relaxes as he breaks to suck in a gasping breath.

Elias’ mouth opens, half quirked in that smugly satisfied smirk before Peter kisses him again, hard , pulling him into his mouth with one hand on that damned tie he keeps about his neck and the other gripping the back of his dark hair, tipping his head up. A gasp from Elias as their teeth clack together and one of Elias’ hands settles on Peter’s shoulder, the other still on the lapel of his waistcoat. 

When they break again, both of their breaths come in heavy pants. Elias releases Peter. Peter lets go of the tie. 

“Feeling less numb?” There’s still a lilt to Elias’ voice, a self-satisfied one, and Peter contemplates kissing the bastard again if only to have him shut up.

“I think you already know.”

“I do. And I know the answer to my next question.”

A beat. A moment of understanding between the flush on both of their faces and the cruel, calculating glint in Elias’ eyes. Peter answers with his grip returning to Elias’ tie and their mouths meet again, this time not stopping at just a mere kiss.


	2. i hope you die (i hope we both die) LonesomeDreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary:
> 
> in the middle of a divorce fight, jonah realizes that he's on peter's boat and they're in the middle of the sea. it doesn't take much for the seasickness to kick in.

i hope you die (i hope we both die)  
LonesomeDreamer

Summary:

in the middle of a divorce fight, jonah realizes that he's on peter's boat and they're in the middle of the sea. it doesn't take much for the seasickness to kick in.  
Notes:

this fic is 100% based off of the song "no children" by the mountain goats. it's such a lonelyeyes song aaaa  
Work Text:  
“—and furthermore, you’ve proved yourself to be nothing but an incompetent bother and—”

“Is being a coward any better? When you’re finally dragged down to the depths of where you belong, I hope you suffer!”

“You know I belong here, with as much power as I can gather! You couldn’t care less, though. Could you? And that shirt! No shirt, turtleneck or not, should be made in such an—an unsightly color!”

They were at it again.

The whole of the crew, aware of the screams and violent shouting echoing from the Captain’s quarters, had chosen to make themselves quite absent. Not a soul could be seen on-deck, and the halls beneath were empty; angry footsteps, rattling the floorboards, scared the want to move out of any concerned sailors.

“I simply do hate you, you know,” Jonah remarked snidely, poking at a glass vase and languidly watching the object fall to the floor. He folded his arms over his chest, not quite hiding the shimmering eye pin in his cravat. “In fact, I’ve half a mind to walk out that door and get another divorce.”

Peter didn’t even afford the glass shards so much as a glance. “Oh, you will? Well, let it be known that I can’t stand you or your stupid suits or your obsession over yourself! I’d much rather die alone, thank you, and you’re making this easier for me.”

Glaring at the Captain with two half-glowing blue eyes, Jonah angrily turned on his heel and strode towards the door. He ran a hand through his brunet hair, slicking it back, and started up the stairs.

“I’m not coming back, you know!” he called out behind him. “Go ahead and—”

The older gentleman paused, looking around. He swallowed hard; the color drained from his face, and he suddenly appeared quite ill.

“...ah. Ocean,” he mumbled.

Indeed, the ship had long been out to sea. All that could be observed, all around the ship, consisted of choppy waves and the white bubbles of sea foam atop each wave’s peak. Somehow, this had entirely escaped Magnus’ mind; the argument between himself and Peter had been so scathing, and he had thrown himself so into it, that he had completely forgotten he was on a ship.

Water. All the way around. No land in sight, nothing to hold, no la—

An expression of regret and distaste upon his face, Jonah doubled over and vomited all over his own shoes—a lovely pair of black leather oxfords. He clutched at his stomach, retching and swaying as the remnants of his last meal—lunch had been roasted salmon, with various sides, and he’d had a few glasses of wine before having one slice of tart and then another and then finishing Peter’s even as the other man teased him for putting on a few kilograms, which was entirely a lie that had been made up just to humiliate him—left the inside of his body from the same hole they’d entered the earthly vessel through. He wiped at his mouth pathetically, cringing as he pulled his sleeve away to find the disgusting red-orange tinge of vomit all over the white cuffs. A few little bits had been missed; these dribbled down his chin and onto his clothes, staining them. His whole body was shaking violently.

Jonah became distinctly aware, even through the haze of nausea, that there was someone next to him; the hand that was swiftly set upon his shoulder was instantly recognized by him as being one of Peter Lukas’ hands.

“We’re on a ship,” Lukas said gently.

“Yes, ship,” Jonah muttered annoyedly, rolling his eyes. “We must get back to—”

Another round of vomiting cut him off; the older man’s knees gave out, and he leaned up against Peter for support. Frantic, vomit-stained hands scrabbled for a hold on the Captain’s turtleneck. The forest green, which had earlier seemed so garish and unsightly to Magnus, proved to be a solid source of visual grounding.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” Peter sighed quietly, rolling his eyes before hoisting Jonah into his arms. “I’ve got extra suits for you in the closet. And there’s broth around.”

Jonah could barely even provide a whimper in response, so suddenly seasick was he. He resorted to burying his face in Peter’s chest and crying quiet, miserable tears.

By the time they made it to the bedroom, the brunet man found himself feeling remarkably sleepy. He yawned quietly, curling up somewhat as he was laid beneath the covers.

Peter pulled the comforter up under Jonah’s chin before kissing him on the forehead and turning to find any needed essential items.

“I hate you,” Jonah mumbled. “I abhor your stupid boat and your stupid—”

“Mind who’s holding the tools,” Peter laughed somewhat evilly. “And I don’t think we can process two divorces in one day.”

His words fell on deaf ears; Magnus had already fallen asleep. With a sigh, the Captain went off in search of food and blankets.

“...stupid,” he muttered, rolling his eyes yet again. “My darling horrible Jonah Magnus…”


	3. Somehow Human Katrandom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter proposes (again) and it's very soft.

“So, you think he’s going to do it?”

Annabelle looked over her glass at Nikola, “Don’t know. He wimped out last year.”

“He’s been standing close to Simon for the last hour. I’ll bet Fairchild is in on it.”

“What are you willing to bet?” Annabelle grinned just a little too wide. Nikola giggled and spun at the waist before dropping to a bow.

“I’ll bet you a dance of the winners choice!”

“I hope you like Tango,” Annabelle said as she shook the mannequin’s hand, “Because I-”

~Oh, there's no place like home for the holidays, For no matter how far away you roam~

Annabelle’s mouth straighten into a firm line as the area in front of the fireplace cleared around Peter Lukas.

“I’m actually quite partial to the Waltz,” Nikola said, sounding suspiciously like she’d be smirking if she had a face.

~ When you long for the sunshine of a friendly gaze, For the holidays - you can't beat home, sweet home~

Elias appeared from the edge off the circle and gave Peter a questioning look before taking his hand. Peter pulled him closer than was necessary for the mood and tempo of the song.

“The Carpenters? Really?” Elias asked.

“I’ve always been a fan of Karen’s voice,” Peter said.

Elias snorted and turned his head to watch the other attendees exchange their bet money and favors.

“ Oh there's no place like home for the holidays, 'Cause no matter how far away you roam, If you want to be happy in a million ways, For the holidays - you can't beat home, sweet home ,” Peter sang, beard scraping Elias’s face pleasantly as Peter pressed a kiss to his temple.

Elias relaxed and allowed himself to burrow deeper into Peter’s chest as fog began to creep up his ankles. His fingers traced the line of Peter’s spine before both hands came up to grip rounded muscular shoulders that spoke of life on the sea.

The party around them melted away until just the barest echoes of music filtered through the fog. Peter’s hands laid flat in the small of Elias’s back and pulled them tight together.

“I know you like to keep this part for yourself,” Peter whispered.

“I don’t know why you have to do this every year.”

“It’s not every year. Some years we’re still married by this point.”

Elias buried his face into Peter’s sweater and laughed in earnest at the offense in his voice. Peter softened and brought a hand up to card through Elias’s hair with the sappiest smile on his face.

“Should I still ask or…” Peter ventured after Elias simmered down to soft snickers.

“Depends, am I getting a new ring or did you find where I buried the last one?”

“As if I’d ever be able to find where you hide those things,” Peter scoffed as he pulled out an ornate ring box and dropped to one knee.

Elias stepped back, “I love seeing you on your knees.”

Peter glowered at him like he was trying to figure out whether to snark back before shaking his head and popping open the box, “Jonah Magnus, will you marry me.”

Elias grinned.

“Yes


	4. deceiving each other is a pointless thing Champagne

It’s a thought that hits him at the most inopportune time, all things considered.

It’s been half a year since he last saw Peter, and for some reason, this time around, it settles differently. He didn’t notice at first, the emptiness there. It blends in with the minutiae of his management of fear and of the institute in his day to day life so seamlessly that it takes him a while before it comes to his attention.

When it does, it’s like a black hole, a sucking sensation that wants to pull him down, take all of his energy and will to continue the day. It makes him want to see him again, more than anything. He resists the urge to close his eyes and spy on him right then and there, but he does close his eyes. He takes a deep breath. He finds that he genuinely misses him. It’s not a new line of thought, exactly--in fact it’s one that he’s had a few times over the course of their tumultuous relationship, but again, this is different. Somehow. Harsher, or deeper perhaps. A bone-deep ache.

He shakes his head and tries to go about his day as if it were any other, tries to ignore these mostly unwanted feelings. His annoyance and frustration warm him, but that doesn’t stop the cold hand of the Lonely from caressing the back of his neck as he double checks his schedule for the rest of week. Doesn’t stop the claws of it as it sinks into his lungs when he’s on his breaks and his mind is unoccupied. But he persists. It’s stronger than previous times, the presence of the Lonely in the air around him, but it can’t be considered anything new. There are pros and cons to every relationship, and when it comes to his with Peter, the constant threat of the Lonely is one of the cons. A lot of the time, this isn’t a problem. A lot of the time, he just observes his situation and the Loneliness dissipates like fog under the sun. This time, of course, it’s different.

Elias quickly finds himself hating ‘different’. Finds himself hating the softer spectrum of emotion because of how it plays with his heart like he’s as fragile as anyone else on earth. Finds himself hating how much he misses his husband, waxing and waning, sometimes so fiercely it’s a physical pain.

Simply acknowledging his situation just brings it into a stark light and makes the ache worse, and does nothing at all to dissipate the chill. Attempting to dissect it, take the pieces and catalogue them, dregs up memories so vivid it’s as if he’s there again, on beaches or in vacation homes. It’s jarring to have his usual technique throw back in his face, to see scenes that cause him pain in such precise ways, but trying to twist it to his benefit just drags up more memories and more pain. So instead, he tries to push down the unwanted emotions and the wandering thoughts of ridiculous yearning and heartsickness, and focus on work.

Of course, given his streak of luck thus far, it doesn’t work.

He calls it an early day, after losing the uphill battle against his own mind, and asks Rosie to remind him of a few things when he arrives in the morning. He thinks about how her blouse is the same silvery grey as Peter’s hair and wonders just how he fell so far for him this time around. Surely, he’d get a kick out of the meandering thoughts, if he knew just how strong his hold on Elias has become, however briefly.

Rosie gives him a pleasant smile and wishes him a good evening, and Elias dons his coat and starts on his way home.

He can’t say with any amount of confidence that either of them have been acting differently towards each other this go around. In fact, it might be safer to say that they’re more at odds now than they have been in the past, considering their individual plans for rituals are in the early stages. He has yet to get a letter from Peter, off cavorting about wherever his lonely heart desires, and in turn, he hasn’t tried to spy on him to see if he’s doing anything particularly interesting or useful. It’s a step to their dance that both of them seem to have missed. That doesn’t explain everything in a satisfactory way, though. He hadn’t noticed it until now, after all. A dance is subject to change, but being melancholic over a change in the steps is a ridiculous thought to him.

Maybe it’s the distance. There’s more than during their worst divorce thus far, both physical and emotional, but the key difference--the realization hits him in a different way than noticing his own pitiful yearning. He has to pause at the bottom of the institute’s front steps, because it clogs his throat with its cloying sweetness and makes it difficult to breathe. The key difference is the lack of any acrimony between them when Peter left.

It takes a long minute for him to reign it in and get a proper breath, but then he’s walking again, heading to his empty home.

The drive is sort of a blur, but he refuses to acknowledge that. His mind is hazy at best, lost in a familiar fog and time softened memories, but he finds himself at his home in one piece and not missing anything, so he simply shakes his head and grabs the doorknob, and then he stops. He releases the doorknob, and his hand is slightly damp when he brings it up to his face, and there are faint ice crystals spreading along the brass of the doorknob when he looks down at it. He curses himself for the twisting hope that makes its home in his chest at that, but he refuses to Look inside for Peter. It feels too much like a concession. Besides, it’s winter, ice tends to happen, stop--

He sighs sharply through his nose and opens the door, all but slamming it shut behind him. The lights are off, the blinds are closed, and the air is cold enough that his breath puffs out a cloud when he exhales. The hope writhes, and Elias swallows Peter’s name before it can leave his mouth, because calling out to an empty house was too pathetic, and he hasn’t fallen that far. Yet. There’s still hope for him to pull himself out of this before he ends up casting himself upon the metaphorical altar of the Lonely, a sacrifice of his own making. The mental image makes him snort.

Instead of Peter, he tries to think about what to do with the rest of his day, for entertainment, for dinner, for winding down, and it’s a jumbled mess as he takes off his coat and shoes, too many things running in circles in his mind, and then he stops again. It takes several seconds of staring before it hits him like a physical blow, seeing the second pair of shoes on the rack and familiar peacoat on its hook, and he finds himself frozen in the entryway for too long of a minute. He finds himself having a hard time breathing again.

His heart is pounding in his ears and his throat refuses to cooperate, because all it wants to say is Peter’s name. He forces himself to take a deep breath before he turns and walks into his house proper. The floor is like ice under his feet. It’s grounding, but at the same time it sends his mind off into the salty sea air of memories. He doesn’t even bother turning on the heat.

Peter is home, as far as he can tell, but it does nothing to ease the cold grip on his insides as he walks around and sees the small signs of life. Peter’s half empty cup on the kitchen island, beside a plate of crumbs, is the first thing he finds. He goes about rinsing the ice cold tea out of the cup and washing both it and the plate, putting them away, lingering as he wonders if Peter has even properly eaten today.

For a brief handful of minutes, he considers that maybe Peter had just stopped by and then left again, into the Lonely. He’s gone without a coat and shoes before and it always leaves him bitter and hard in more ways than just physical.

Then he sees Peter’s keys abandoned on the hallway table, as he continues inside, beside a wallet and some assorted jewelry he doesn’t remember Peter having. No doubt gifts for Elias, of some sort. He remembers Peter telling him that the jewelry he brings home reminds him of Elias, saying something about his eyes, which is why he buys so much of it. It was ridiculous, and usually Elias wouldn’t care for the ironic romanticism of similes involving eyes, but now the memory hurts like frostbite.

At this point, he’s on the lookout for the man himself. He’s gone past considering Peter walking around barefoot on the monochrome sandy beach and is now considering this might be some twisted game of hide-and-seek. Or simply a trail leading Elias to where Peter is waiting for him. He hears the sound of the tv on in the next room, a woman’s voice pleasantly droning on about the Arctic Circle, and Elias makes a mental note to remind Peter not to leave it on when he’s not even watching it as he opens the door to the den, and yet again he finds himself frozen.

There’s a familiar hat on the back of the sofa, and a mess of grey-white hair resting against the arm. Elias can’t get his legs to move no matter how much he wants them to, and he just stares at the top of Peter’s head as the woman starts talking about the polar nights and midnight suns of the Arctic and Antarctic circles. About the months upon months of darkness, and then how the sun has its reign with uninterrupted light for just as long, because of the axis of the earth.

It’s all sappy and poetic in a way that doesn’t escape him, but he never fancied himself a romantic. Not like Peter is.

His legs finally obey him, and he walks over to the couch. Peter is sprawled across it, clearly not meaning to fall asleep there, with the remote still in his hand and one foot still planted on the floor. It makes something heavy and saccharine well in Elias’ lungs and throat, and before he can stop himself he runs a hand through Peter’s hair. It’s crusted in sea salt and frost but still somehow soft. Peter hums in his sleep, a low, vibrating sound that reverberates through Elias like he’s a bell that’s been struck, and he steps around Peter to sit down on the other side of the couch.

At this point, he’s given up resisting the heavy weight of these ridiculous emotions he finds himself suffering through--honestly, it’s days like this he finds himself wishing that the Eye was one of those patrons that cared only for certain emotions and discarded the rest--and he grabs the quilt draped across the back of the couch before nudging Peter’s thigh. “Roll over,” he orders, and Peter hums again and does just that, pulling his other leg onto the couch and laying on his back. Elias briefly considers grabbing a pillow so that Peter won’t wake up with a sore neck and back, and snatches the two from the armchairs. Peter starts grumbling as Elias shoves them under his head and upper back, but then he lets out a content sigh once he settles back into them.

“Ridiculous,” Elias finds himself mumbling. At the same time his misplaced affection makes it almost impossible to breathe, and he covers himself and Peter with the quilt as he lays down on top of him. Peter is cold, freezing almost, but it’s not anything new. In fact, it’s a comfort, as ridiculous as that sounds. A familiar body, with familiar fat and muscle and divots and mounds that Elias fits against like he belongs there. Peter’s hand absently runs up his back and makes him shiver from the icy trail it leaves behind, but Elias feels that black hole inside of him begin to disappear. It fills with ice and fog and assorted jewelry and fond memories, and he falls asleep before he fully realizes what’s happening.

He wakes to Peter’s hand running through his hair, but he doesn’t want to get up and start their usual song and dance again, not yet. He buries his face in Peter’s chest and feels the rumbling of low laughter as much as he hears it.

“We could at least move somewhere more comfortable,” Peter murmurs, and twists some of Elias’ hair around his fingers. Another shiver runs down Elias’ spine, and Peter laughs again. “Come on, Elias. You’re cold.”

It sounds more like an accusation than an observation. Elias finds that Peter is right, though, even with his mind still hazy from the impromptu nap. He’s absorbed enough of Peter’s unearthly chill that he finds himself freezing, and Peter is warm by comparison. It explains Peter’s amicable nature, in a way. Elias has taken on more of the Lonely than usual, and it frees up bits of Peter’s soul, or something to that effect. It’d almost be poetic, if it were true. Not that he knows that it isn’t, but--

He slams the brakes down on his train of thought and huffs. Nothing good will come from that kind of wishful thinking. “I wonder why that is,” Elias grumbles, finally, and Peter’s next laugh is louder, coming from his stomach. It shakes Elias because he’s still lying on top of him, and his breath cards through Elias’ hair like another hand. Peter shifts underneath him, either adjusting or trying to free himself, but Elias stubbornly refuses to move, even as Peter starts prodding his side in an attempt to get him to squirm. He’s so cold and numb that he finds himself not ticklish, and it’s both worrisome and a small comfort.

“At least let me get up and turn on the heat,” Peter says, his voice trembling with contained laughter but laced with something like concern.

Elias tightens his hold on Peter. “No.”

Peter sighs, and he stops poking at Elias to run his hand through his hair again. “Alright,” he says softly, with a dulled edge to his tone that almost comes across as smitten, as captivated. He traces nonsense patterns into Elias’ scalp and against the back of his neck and breathes evenly, steadily, lulling Elias back towards sleep.

He doesn’t want to sleep, but he feels full and safe and he hates the vulnerability as much as he craves it. “How long are you staying?” Elias mumbles against him. This time, he wants to add, but his usual annoyance at Peter’s nonsense schedule is lost somewhere in the chill and feel of Peter’s hand.

Peter hums. He doesn’t answer immediately, which can be a good or a bad thing, depending on how much Elias plans on missing him once he’s gone. As it is in that moment, nuzzling against him, Elias wants the answer to be a while. I’ll be around for a while, this time.

“It’s up in the air,” he finally says.

Stay, Elias wants to say, but he doesn’t want Peter to have something to use against him either, for when they inevitably fall into a downward swing. But he also knows Peter doesn’t want to genuinely hurt him, as odd of a thought as it is. Perhaps it’s hard for him to feed off of Elias’ loneliness when it’s mostly anger. Maybe the romantic side of Peter extends fully to Elias’ happiness, even given their ties to their separate, opposing gods. Maybe they’re both softer towards each other than they’d like to admit. The rational part of Elias points out that it won’t always be this way, and that should be a good thing.

“I will,” Peter says softly, and it takes a few seconds for Elias to realize that he’d said it out loud anyway. “Until you’re sick of me,” he adds, amusement coloring his tone, and he plants a kiss onto the top of Elias’ head. It’s a point of ice that sweeps through his entire body, but pleasantly.

Elias mumbles a dull edged insult, almost too embarrassed to say anything at all, and Peter chuckles at this. He starts humming a familiar tune instead of responding, one of many that Peter has collected over the years like scars, and Elias falls asleep again, lulled back in by Peter’s gentle fingers and quiet sea shanties.

Peter feels the sharp attention of Elias’ power seconds before he hears Elias’ footsteps coming from down the hall. A chuckle rises in his throat at the uncomfortable feel of eyes hovering behind him, and he finishes making himself a cup of tea by the time Elias steps into the kitchen doorway, looking ruffled and only half awake and, if he may say so, positively adorable.

Elias sits down on one of the barstools lined up along the kitchen island, and just watches Peter. The uncomfortable weight lifts from his shoulders and all he feels is Elias’ own sharp gaze observing him move around the kitchen, something in his eyes that Peter hasn’t seen in a long time. Something like affection, mixed with disbelief.

“Good morning,” Peter says to him, and starts making Elias a cup of tea as well. It won’t be good, because tea has never been Peter’s forte, but it’ll be hot, and Elias still looks pale, his lips just slightly blue.

“Good evening, you mean,” Elias grumbles, not taking his eyes off him. He barely even blinks, and it’d be unsettling if Peter didn’t already consider it endearing.

“Good evening,” Peter amends, and mixes a spoon and a half of sugar into Elias’ tea before placing it down in front of him. Elias immediately wraps his hands around it and hums, low in the back of his throat. He very pointedly doesn’t take a drink of it. “Have a nice nap?” Peter asks, just to fill the silence. It’s usually Elias that talks about nothing in particular, to keep the air from stagnating but also mostly to annoy him and his constant desire for isolation and quiet. This time, though, Peter finds himself wanting to fill the silence just so he can see Elias’ face change with microexpressions he’s come to memorize over the years. He briefly entertains the idea that maybe this is why Elias does it to him.

This particular question earns a twitch of his lips down, and for his eyebrows to knit together briefly before his face returns to politely blank. Thoughtful, and mildly annoyed. “No,” Elias says, and finally takes a drink. He looks a little impressed and his head nods just slightly, and a twisted and painful pride makes its home in Peter’s stomach. “I’m far too cold.”

“I offered to turn up the heat,” Peter says with a chuckle.

Elias takes another drink, and leaves the cup up by his face. The steam turns the tip of his nose red, and his fingers are already beginning to regain color. “No,” he says again, with just the slightest lilt to his voice that Peter reads as teasing. It makes him smirk, and Elias returns it with a twitch of his eyebrow.

“What’s got you so affectionate today?” Peter asks instead, hoping to blindside him with how suddenly it comes up. Elias blinks at him, his expression schooled back into neutral, and Peter can’t tell if he’s succeeded or not.

It’s an honest question as much as it’s a challenge. Elias is not and has never been a physically affectionate person, let alone the type of man to openly admit his more romantic desires. So both happening in rapid succession, him curling up against Peter and even asking him to stay, cuts at him. It worries him as much as it thrills him, because it’s a small gift with massive implications.

Elias responds, after a few beats of silence. “I could ask you the same thing.”

This, of course, Peter was expecting. A parry and strike of his own, because Elias does not back down from learning everything he can. And Peter has given it plenty of thought, in the few hours of Elias’ napping. He can’t begin to understand and rationalize Elias’ own feelings towards their relationship, but Peter uses it for his god. It’s why he’s home already, after only a few short months. Sometimes the Lonely wants him to be on his own, at sea, adrift in several definitions, and sometimes it wants him to be at home and in the arms of his husband, because loving company can cause the sharpest loneliness. At this particular point in time, Peter has reached the apex of his current cycle and has started his ritual to fall to the other direction. Loneliness only hurts when there’s something to miss, and spending too much time away from home begins to numb him to this pain, so here he is. It strikes him as a little odd that it happened so quickly this time around, that the sea lost its appeal, but he’s not beyond human proclivities. People tend to prefer the company of their spouses, right? At least, that’s how he thinks it’s supposed to work.

Regardless, he’s home because it makes him miss being on the Tundra and it’s isolation, and sometime in the near future he’ll return to his vessel and crew because it will make him ache for Elias.

“Just how it is, sometimes,” Peter responds, finally. He doesn’t know how long the two of them have been sitting in silence, but Elias hums as if it’s only been seconds. He’s nodding again, just slightly, and it’s an agreement that Peter wasn’t exactly expecting. He stops and watches how Elias taps a nonsense rhythm against the ceramic of his cup as he stares down at it, not seeing it. Elias’ own loneliness is sweet, thick like honey in the back of his throat, and he savors it as he watches Elias refuse to acknowledge it or Peter, until Peter is practically choking on it. His presence is drawing out the bone deep ache in Elias, and it’s as much of a treat as it is a weight on his chest.

He sets down his cup and walks around the island to Elias, but Elias doesn’t look up, not immediately. He stares down at his tea until Peter says his name, and then he only glances up at him.

“What do you want, Peter,” he says, sounding resigned and achingly fond at the same time. It’s not a question, but a prompt for Peter to do whatever it is he’s planning.

And what he’s planning is to tilt Elias’ face up to him and brush a kiss against his mouth. Elias shivers under his touch, not even trying to hide it, and he’s still so cold beneath Peter’s fingers. He kisses him again, deeper, and Elias brings one hand up to wrap around the back of his neck, and at least his fingers are warm. Elias hums when Peter pulls away, his eyes lingering on Peter’s mouth in a way that gives him space even though they’re so close, and he closes his eyes when Peter leans in again. He huffs a quiet laugh when Peter instead kisses his eyelids.

“Feeling sentimental?” he asks, in a teasing lilt again.

“Always,” Peter says, and Elias lets him tilt his head back and kiss down his cheek, down his jaw, to his neck and nuzzle there. He hums again, a low sound that echoes through Peter in a pleasantly overwhelming way, just on the edge of too much. “I meant what I said,” he mutters against Elias’ still cold skin. Elias says nothing, but Peter can feel the desire for clarification in the now tense muscles of Elias’ neck, and it’s like a charge in the air. “I’ll stay until you’re sick of me, this time.”

Elias goes almost limp, relaxing again in his arms, as he kisses more of his neck, back up to his jaw. It’s a small concession of power, all things considered, but even just this is enough to make Peter want more than just kissing in the middle of the kitchen. Elias scratches absently at the back of Peter’s neck, until he’s had enough of this and he sits up, out of Peter’s arms.

“You owe me dinner,” he says primly. “I slept right through it.”

“That’s not my fault.” Peter chuckles, but he turns to start looking through Elias’ kitchen. He’s not a great cook by any means, but it’s not the quality of the meal that Elias is looking for here, it’s the submission, and Peter gives in to immediately. He’s not sure if it’s a Beholding thing or an Elias thing, to be the one with the power and control, but either way he likes how it makes Elias square his shoulders and lift his chin in haughty amusement.

He lets Elias watch him putter around, a little lost on what to do for food. He knows the layout well enough, knows the usual types of food and ingredients that Elias keeps on hand, but he’s not hungry himself. Elias is slowly starting to warm up again, watching Peter at home in the kitchen, but his earlier nosedive was enough to sustain Peter for days, most likely.

Elias gives a derisive snort when Peter pulls out a few packets of cheap ramen noodles. Peter shrugs and tosses them onto the counter. “You never said it had to be fancy,” he says, and watches Elias roll his eyes with his entire upper body and it’s endearing and he can’t help but smile. “I could make it fancy?” he adds, with enough of an upward inflection to make it a question.

This makes Elias laugh, leaning toward mocking but still genuine enough that butterflies flutter in Peter’s stomach. He’s still on the fence about whether or not he likes the feeling, after all these years. “And how, exactly, are you going to make a quid of ramen ‘fancy’?” He leans one elbow against the island and rests his chin against his fist, his eyes narrowed in amusement and ridicule and--yes, for now, Peter finds he enjoys the fluttering.

“That’s a good question,” Peter says, because he knows admitting his floundering will make Elias snort, and the noise is pleasantly rough. By this point, most of his color has returned and the blue tint to his lips has started to fade.

“I’m not helping you,” is what Elias says, but his tone makes it clear that he’ll step in the moment Peter’s incompetence makes him too frustrated to simply watch. Whether or not Elias is consciously aware of this is up in the air, however, and Peter shoots him a cheeky grin and sets some water to boil.

They fall into silence, after that, and it’s comfortable. Somehow, the air is downy and fogged around the edges, but there’s no undercurrent of animosity that usually runs between them. Peter decides to pull vegetables from the fridge to add to the ramen, as well as some simple sliced deli meat, and Elias snorts at him again both times, but it lacks its usual bite and makes Peter smile more than scowl. It’s an odd change of pace, if he’s being honest with himself. He usually knows Elias to be sharp words and rough edges, but now Elias is watching him with a naked fondness that feels like too much. Peter wants him to stop, because Elias’ scrutiny tends to fall closer to unpleasant than comforting, but then Elias is staring off out the kitchen window. He lets out a small sigh. It’s unacceptable, so Peter stops what he’s doing to walk back over to Elias and lean on the island next to him.

Elias blinks twice, then slides his eyes over to meet Peter’s. The faint mist of the Lonely disappears from the kitchen air immediately.

“It’s rather rude to daydream while you have company,” Peter tells him, and Elias rolls his eyes and waves him off. He doesn’t say anything, so Peter stays in place and watches him lean back, scrunch up his nose in distaste, and cross his arms.

Then, he finally says, “What do you want, Peter?” in much the same way as earlier. Peter didn’t exactly have a plan for this, wasn’t entirely sure Elias would cave under Peter’s scrutiny like Peter tends to under Elias’, so he shrugs. Elias scoffs.

A nugget of warmth sits in his core as he watches Elias run a hand through his hair and mess it up even more. It’s hard to explain why he says to Elias, “Would you believe me if I said I love you?” but he decides not to think too hard about it just yet. He’ll think back and regret it later, perhaps, but for now he relishes the way it makes Elias’ cheeks go just slightly red.

“Considering the day I’ve had,” Elias says, and sounds annoyed and frustrated and just a little off balance, “Yes, I would.”

Peter hums, and steps closer to Elias to lean over him, a hand on his waist. Elias’ head tilts up, but Peter stays far enough away that their lips don’t quite touch. It gets him a sharp sigh, and he smiles.

“So my next question is,” Peter murmurs, and Elias actually closes his eyes. A thrill runs through Peter and leaves him feeling raw and exposed, even though he’s the one in control of the situation, the watcher between them. It’s not unpleasant. “Do you love me?”

Elias just hums, and at first Peter is certain he’s not going to get to hear the words, but then Elias murmurs back, “Yes, I love you.”

Peter kisses him with the sentiment that almost knocks his legs out from under him, an affection so strong it’s agonizing. Elias kisses him back weakly, his hands just barely tugging on Peter’s clothes, and for a few minutes it’s as if they’re normal people, simple humans with nothing supernatural pulling their strings. Husbands with nothing but each other.

And somehow, Peter burns the ramen.


	5. we'll be good in another life alpacasandravens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Elias Bouchard, regarding his relationship with Peter Lukas and the beginning of his service to the Beholding. Statement never given.  
> Or, Elias's POV of his two hundredth anniversary.  
> Notes:

Statement of Elias Bouchard, regarding his relationship with Peter Lukas and the beginning of his service to the Beholding. Statement never given.

Elias sat in his cell, idly Watching. Peter was nowhere to be seen, but of course he wasn’t. The bastard just had to go into the Lonely tonight, just to spite him. He really didn’t know what else he’d expected.

He Saw that idiot Archivist of his sneaking around his office, but the fog of the Forsaken was too strong there to see why. Peter must be there, and purposely blocking Elias’s view. Asshole.

Just when he’d almost given up and resigned himself to sleep (Without even a glimpse of Peter. On their anniversary. How rude.) his office popped into a sudden focus. The fog had disappeared, or more aptly returned to its source - Peter sat in his chair, where he had always been, no longer hidden. He was drunk. Elias shook his head; it was almost like Peter cared.

When his Archivist asked Peter for his statement, Elias could feel the compulsion - he may be lost in a world beyond his understanding, but he was strong. He would survive. Elias had chosen well.

For a minute, Elias just listened and Watched. He Knew Peter’s story, of course. He always had, though Peter had never told it to him and never would. That had always been their way - Peter came back just long enough to make Elias remember he couldn’t live without him, and then he withdrew, making him miss him enough to Watch Peter as he moved on before inevitably gravitating back to Elias.

That’s what he was doing now. They both knew that Peter could have easily secured a visitation today, and even if he couldn’t, the invisibility offered him by the Forsaken allowed him access just as easily. But he chose to be away, in Elias’s office, because he knew how much that would hurt Elias. Sometimes, he regretted ever finding Peter, but every time Peter came back after a long trip at sea or a divorce, he chose it all over again.

Before they’d made their choices, before Peter had become so wrapped up in the Forsaken that all Elias could read from him was betrayal, and then nothing at all, he’d been able to feel the love practically radiating off of him. He hadn’t given himself to the Beholding yet, but he still Knew. Just like he Knew that the disappearance of that love, this impossible cycle they were trapped in, was his fault.

Elias closed his eyes and remembered. He kept Watching Peter, a spike of loneliness constant in the back of his mind, and offered his statement. Not to Jon - never to Jon, who would be kept in the dark about all but the most necessary details of their world - but to the Eye. He didn’t know why he did it. The Beholding had seen every thought in his head, knew every fiber of his being. He gave his statement for Peter, though he knew he couldn’t hear. He was too proud to tell his story where Peter could hear him, but he offered the Eye his memories (memories it already owned) in a desperate bid for Peter to come back.

Now, the Eye does not watch in the same way as a person. It can Watch feelings, thoughts, even listen to memories. And so, Elias’s statement to the Eye was not so much a statement as it was a flood of love, regret, and longing. But if it had been a statement, something meant to be understood by a non-omnipresent being, it would have gone something like this.

“There are some things that you can’t take back. One of those things is a promise. Another is a heart. A promise can never be unmade, only broken, and once broken it is impossible to put back together. My marriage was like something ceramic, appearing stronger than it was, and I’ve been desperately trying to put the pieces back together since I took a hammer to it centuries ago. I don’t regret the hammer though, only the fallout.

You see, some things are necessary. I was given a choice between struggling down the hard path that would inevitably lead to failure and choosing the best of terrible options. Maintain my neutrality and continue to accidentally increase the effectiveness of rituals as Smirke had done, or bring about the Watcher’s Crown, the only ritual that would not necessitate the ending or twisting of humanity into unrecognizable shapes. And there had always been part of my soul that had been claimed by the Eye, that had called out to wear the Crown ever since I could remember.

I’d tried to be neutral for so long. I’d promised Peter that I would be, that neither of us would have to get wrapped up in that game the powers played with humanity. But of course I couldn’t stay out of it. I was too curious, and every answer I found only took me further down the rabbit hole. When I gave myself to the Eye, I knew what it would cost me, but that was only the last step in a one-way road I had been walking on for too long.

When I started university, I had never intended to research the paranormal. I hadn’t really known what I wanted to do, and so I skated my way through my first year taking general education courses that were mildly interesting and which, while I’d always wanted to know more, the thought of pursuing as a career made me feel sick. I enjoyed knowing about how the body worked, and something itched inside of me when I thought of all that remained to be discovered, but I knew I didn’t want to be one of the researchers slaving away for years in search of a small breakthrough.

In the beginning of my second year, I stumbled across a pattern. I found myself in the library in the dead of night putting together the pieces of the grand puzzle that formed the universe, learning that I’d never truly been able to see the full picture of my reality until this moment. I learned of the powers and those that worshipped them, but I couldn’t learn much more from those books. I couldn’t even learn enough to determine their reality - most of the manuscripts were handwritten accounts of terrible creatures and horrific ideas, ones that would not have been out of place among sensationalist books of prophecy but which were corroborated by enough similar documents that they could not be discounted.

I interviewed everyone I could find who had any connection with the powers, and it still wasn’t enough. They had all merely been terrorized, and while there was some satisfaction in hearing an old woman’s story in the corner of a small cafe and being able to classify her sleepwalking and pervasive conviction that her life was not her own as Web, I wanted more. I just wanted to understand.

So I met with an artist in her studio and ran away as the worlds she created began to twist around me, painted doors opening wide to reveal dimly lit hallways beckoning to be explored. I stood in the street when I stopped running, heart pounding and eyes wild. I wanted to go back. I made myself walk away.

I traveled to Kent to interview loneliness, assuming it was nowhere near as dangerous as the spiders or the Spiral. The Lukases received me with as much hospitality as they were capable, but I learned little from them. Lifetimes of isolation help with keeping secrets. One, though, offered to tell me more.

‘I can try to help you,’ he said, ‘just not here. You’ll never understand anything here.’

So the next day I took him into town and demanded he tell me everything he knew. ‘Why did the powers exist?’ I asked. ‘Why devote yourself to one? What do they do?’

I learned nothing that day. The Lukas I’d brought, Peter, was as young as I was. He hadn’t given himself to the Forsaken yet, though he’d seen little else in his life. He spent the entire time we were in town gawking at the sheer volume of people on the street, and he said hello to most everyone we passed. I was almost embarrassed to be around him, as he had no idea how to interact in any kind of social setting. But he wanted to learn, which was something I could understand.

Over the next couple weeks, I met with Peter more often. I never learned anything about the Lonely. That’s not true. I learned to miss him, to look forward to just walking around the city with the socially awkward boy who treated me like I was the first person to be kind to him. Maybe I was.

During those first weeks, I often wondered how good an actor Peter was. Whether he wasn’t as he seemed, whether he made me grow so attached so fast in order to feed his god. I know he does that now. Feeds on my loneliness, on how I hurt when he ignores me. He wouldn’t have back then.

I’d given up on learning from him when I asked him to live with me. I had an extra room, as my flatmate had graduated the previous semester, and he clearly needed out. I moved on, went back to studying what little I could learn of the powers from books in the library, tracking down people who’d had encounters whenever I could. I changed my major to Paranormal Studies.

Peter adjusted quickly. I knew he would; he was brilliant when he put his mind to something. He got a job and paid half of the rent and I liked having him around. I introduced him to my friends and that should have been that. He should have been just my university flatmate, just a friend I could bring to parties now and then and that I might lose touch with after I graduated.

But there was one thing Peter didn’t grow out of. Even after living with me nearly a semester, after making his own friends and his own life, he still looked at me like he worshipped me. With anyone else, he could pretend. He could fool anyone, make them think anything he wanted to just from the tone of his voice, but he could never trick me. I could feel the gratitude and the admiration coming off him, and I got used to it. I hung around him as much as I could, because I loved the way he made me feel. Important, irreplaceable.

I suppose I shouldn’t have done that. Though I was years away from recognizing the Beholding’s claim on me, and decades from giving in to it, the Eye had already started giving me gifts. It let me know how people felt, if not what they were thinking. And I felt so much from Peter.

I knew he wanted to leave the Lonely behind him forever, of course. He’d told me that not long after he moved in, when we were both too tired to keep our eyes open but enjoying the company too much to sleep. And the Eye told me that he was still lonely, just not in the same way.

I’m still not sure why I kissed him that night. Maybe it was to make him feel wanted, to make the flood of positive emotions he usually sent my way stronger. I’d gotten addicted to it, and I needed more. Maybe it was because we were drunk and he was handsome in a forgettable way, beautiful when you were looking and difficult to remember when you looked away. Maybe it was because I could feel how much he wanted from the world, and though I knew that the space in his heart he was trying to fill was a black hole, I hoped that he could want me.

In the end, why I did it doesn’t matter. I did it, and there was no going back from there. I’m not sure when our paths became forever intertwined, whether it was when I looked at him taking a shot of cheap whiskey and laughing on the armrest of my chair and felt the sharpest spike of my own emotion I’d felt in months, or when I pushed him against the wall and we desperately grabbed at every part of each other we could reach. It could have been as long ago as when he walked into my flat for the first time.

I certainly never meant to fall in love with him. He loved me from the beginning, I think. But I didn’t know; what I felt from him never changed. For months and months, we were just best friends who fucked when we were drunk on the weekends, or when we were stressed, and eventually, just because we wanted to.

I told him I loved him in a back alley early on a Sunday morning when the thought of stumbling the last two blocks home seemed impossible. I didn’t mean it, but I knew he wanted me to say it. I thought he deserved at least the thought that someone loved him, even if it wasn’t true. He didn’t say it back, but he kissed me differently. It wasn’t our usual mad dash to skin, when the only objective was to touch as much as we could, knowing that every touch would only add fuel to our fire. This was something with more meaning behind it, and though I pretended it didn’t change anything, I could feel something in my chest start to melt.

At some point over the next year, as my friends at the parties I used to attend grew irritated with my inability to keep my hands off Peter and we started staying home more often on Friday nights, I realized that if I left him, I’d be leaving a part of me, too, and not an insignificant part. I didn’t know what love was, then, and I still don’t think I know now, but that’s as close to it as I can put into words.

I tried to stay away from him. I studied for hours in the library, and I lost track of time as I crammed as much knowledge as I could into my brain and it still wasn’t enough. But every time I looked up from whichever book I was poring over, I would miss Peter so much it felt like my heart was twisting inside my chest. My next thought was that I only missed him so much because I was, for lack of a more refined term, horny. So I found a girl who seemed interested at a bar, and I let myself be interested back.

Peter doesn’t know, of course. He loved me with every part of his soul and there was never a time over our thirty-six years that I wanted to destroy that love enough to tell him I was so scared of commitment that I cheated. And by the time we got back together, it didn’t matter. What was I supposed to say, ‘I cheated on you fifty-seven years ago and even though I know you sleep with other people just to make me jealous I still feel bad?’

I only did it once. The sex was fine, and I barely even thought of Peter. (I did think of him though, found my thoughts drifting even as she lay beneath me.) But when I climbed into bed beside Peter just as the sun was starting to come up, I knew I’d been wrong. Simply waking up next to Peter, him kissing me on the cheek as he left for work, far too awake for the time of day, made me happier than any amount of sex with someone else.

The plans for my Institute were already in the works when we got married. I hadn’t told Peter. I didn’t want him to worry. He’d have resented my involvement with the powers, the world I had said I would stay away from even if I was impossibly curious. So we got married, and afterward I was surprised. No one had broken in to our flat to tell us we couldn’t do this. Nothing had appeared to drag us away from each other. I thought then that the Lonely had finally given up on him.

Even then, I knew the powers would tear us apart. Meeting the way we did, it was inevitable. But I couldn’t feel the Lonely anywhere near him, and I didn’t Know his emotions - I knew them because I knew him. Peter whispered ‘I love you’ like a prayer, over and over until we put his mouth to other uses. I loved him too, and even the thought that the promise of forever I’d given him wouldn’t last terrified me. That its failure was a certainty hurt too much to bear thinking about.

Peter was so betrayed when I opened my Institute. He knew what I was doing better than I did, knew that neutrality of the type I professed was impossible when I kept tempting the Eye like that. But I hadn’t listened. I couldn’t listen - I was too curious, and by this point, too scared.

I’d met Smirke in university, where he’d been a not-too-distant graduate with a barely concealed interest in the supernatural, and we had never stopped corresponding. My Institute was meant to help us both, though in the end it killed him. Or rather, I killed him. But back then, I hadn’t given up. We worked to bind the powers, and somehow I thought we could succeed.

I promised Peter that it wasn’t what it seemed like. I was working against the Beholding just as much as I worked against the others. ‘I would never drag you back into this,’ I begged, desperate to convince him I knew what I was doing. He didn’t believe me.

He left me. Only for a week, but it was more than long enough to prove his point. I missed him every moment he wasn’t around. He hadn’t told me he’d be back, just said that if he couldn’t have a normal life with me, if he couldn’t trust me, he didn’t want me. I felt like I’d been shot. No, it was worse. Being shot is a physical pain, and this felt like Peter had ripped my heart out of my chest and taken my soul with it. I told myself I’d always known it would happen, that it was better to get it over with now and still have a lifetime to get over him. I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I was never getting over him.

When he came back I almost cried of relief. Then, I thought I’d give anything to have just a little more time with him. I knew with absolute certainty that there was no part of me that didn’t completely belong to him, and I told him so in shaky breaths in between deep kisses.

Of course, I didn’t stop my work at the Institute. Smirke and I were determined, and Peter let it go. In the end, we made everything worse. Binding places were transformed into places of power, and suddenly there was no power that didn’t have a ritual to follow. A quick and easy script to bring about the end of the world.

When I chose the Beholding, I did so because I knew it was the only way. I’d been playing this game of fear politics for so long without fully realizing it, and there was no longer a way to stop the entities. All I could do was choose which one would triumph. I promised myself to it, and I knew as I did so that I’d lost Peter forever. I told myself I was okay with it because he would be safe, because if the Eye was manifest then the Lonely would be destroyed. I did what I had to do.

The Eye let me see anything I wanted, once I’d become its avatar. I never used it to spy on Peter. I thought that if I didn’t, I’d be better off. The pain of missing him still felt like a gaping hole in my chest, but I never gave in to the temptation to See him again. I knew the Eye would give me immortality, that I would never have to suffer the pain of old age and death. I hoped that I could forget Peter over time. And after a while, the ache did become muted, though it never fully vanished.

I heard, of course, of a new avatar rising through the ranks of the Lonely. I hoped with everything I had that it wasn’t Peter, that he hadn’t gone back. The Eye can’t Watch the Forsaken, but even if it could, I wouldn’t have. Yes, knowing who exactly I was dealing with was valuable intelligence, but not valuable enough to break the rule I’d set for myself.

I couldn’t avoid him forever. The ritual Smirke had described to me, that I thought I could immediately complete, was far from ready, so I had to form my own alliances. It wouldn’t have been my choice to do so with the Lonely, but they had funds that my Institute desperately needed.

That meeting almost ruined everything for me. I’d worked so hard to build alliances, to make the other, older avatars see me as an equal. I’d tried my best to prepare. I told myself that it had been twenty-two years and I was over him. That the representative of the Lukas family wouldn’t be him, but if it was I would be okay, that he didn’t matter to me anymore. I conveniently ignored the fact that I’d spent every one of the anniversaries we would have had drinking alone, that I’d never even tried to find someone else.

All of that preparation didn’t mean anything. Peter walked in fifteen minutes late (He’d hated being late, before.) and smiled at me and Simon Fairchild with the same blank eyes, and I could barely keep my face neutral. Fairchild raised an eyebrow at me and snorted a laugh, so I may not have managed it.

Normally, I love paperwork. It’s repetitive and tedious and contains so many hidden loopholes most people never think to look for. But then I couldn’t stand it. Negotiating our alliance, drawing up the terms and reading them over, would have been a perfect afternoon if Peter hadn’t been there. But he was, and I couldn’t focus.

I missed most of what was said that day. I kept catching myself staring at Peter, mind lost in memories of what we’d had and foolish scenarios where we could just pick up where we left off, as if it had ever been that simple. Just because we looked the same didn’t mean we hadn’t changed.

Knowing it was impossible didn’t stop me. I caught Peter looking once or twice, and from then on me concentrating on the topic at hand was a lost cause. When Fairchild finally adjourned the meeting, sending me an exaggerated wink before leaving, I was lost. I didn’t know what I was supposed to be pretending anymore. So I sat in my chair and resolutely looked anywhere but Peter and told myself my hands weren’t shaking.

I expected him to walk out. It would have been the perfect sacrifice to his god. The aching want and the years of sadness and pain were practically radiating off of me. Instead, he walked over to me and leaned against the table beside my chair and reached out to turn my face toward his. He held me at arms length with two fingers resting on my cheek, and my eyes slipped closed.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, and I melted into him.

I got a letter a few days later. Peter was going out to sea, it said, and would be gone several months, but he would like to inquire if I wanted to have coffee when he returned. I knew what he was doing; he wasn’t subtle. I also knew there was no way for me to say no. It was like there was a knife in my heart and everything Peter did slowly twisted it.

Every time we got married, it was a cold ceremony followed by us trying our best to make up for how horrible we were for each other with sex. And every time, I let myself fall for it. I loved him, or I needed him, or both. I left him so many times, knowing that neither of us deserved this. I could never stay away. Some part of me still needs him like air.

I regret losing what we had, but I don’t regret my actions. When I chose the Beholding, I chose freely, and I remain convinced of the necessity of my choice. And at least I still have Peter, though I wonder whether the constant cycle of tears and pain and sex and loneliness is worth it. I’m not sure whether it hurts less to have him and know it won’t last or to be apart and waiting for him, but I know either is preferable to the thought of not having him at all.”

Elias opened his eyes. He’d never given a statement before; it hadn’t been necessary. He didn’t feel the same kind of relief that the other statement-givers always claimed to experience as they left. He didn’t feel lighter. Maybe it was because of his closeness to the Eye. Maybe it was because while their experiences were over, his would never end.

He Looked to his office, his longing for Peter a physical ache in his chest. His chair was empty, and the area was clear of Forsaken fog. With a bitter sigh, he laid down on his standard-issue prison cot. He searched for Peter until his thoughts started to grow fuzzy with sleep. When he couldn’t find him, he poured all his energy into sending Peter a message.

Elias knew he could strategically place truths in other people’s brains. He’d had fun terrorizing his staff with it, before that incompetent fool had outsmarted him. He’d never tried it without his victim before him though, and never with another avatar. As he fell asleep, he focused on sending Peter a message. Putting his own truth in his husband’s head.

‘I love you. I miss you. Come back to me, I need you


	6. Old Scripture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter likes to quote things. Old things.
> 
> The three times he did, and well, the only time he couldn't.

“Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,"

Peter sighed the first stanza out to the frigid air, fetching the tobacco pipe from his pocket. His voice carried on the wind as the hull of The Tundra groaned against the waves, her form the only visible shape in the dense fog. Empty eyes stared out to the nothingness ahead before he closed his eyes to the world around him.

A splash of sea spray shot up the side, stinging against his face as it returned to the ocean. A whisper of the wind whistled past his ears. There was no resonant echo. No other voice that inflicted on him unwarranted company.

Just him, and the stinging discomfort in his heart that came as readily as it did breathing. A constant that welcomed so openly with open arms. The furthest one could be from the rest of the world. Nobody could reach him here. Not truly.

Peter brought the pipe to his lips, his other hand dipping into his coat pocket to fetch for his matchbook. His slow, lethargic movements froze, a shudder having shot down his spine. A distinct disgust welled in his chest, opening his eyes and breathing deeply. Disappointment.

Almost nobody.

There was a welling of static, high and nuanced as the fog curled to Peter’s side.

“James.” Peter turned his head to his left, but didn’t give the burning sensation at the base of his neck the satisfaction of being given eye contact. Staring back into the Eye was a repulsive, revolting thing and more so that it’d managed to slip through the cracks unaware. A personal breach of his privacy, his abode, his home , and the Ceaseless Watcher had delighted in poking its holes in it.

A moment passed, and the sensation persisted.

Peter brought his attention back to the crashing waves that were deafening as they rolled past. The fog soon encased him whole, as he exhaled out a heavy, echoing static.

“I’d like to be left alone.”

The captain vanished from the deck of The Tundra without so much as a noise. 

It irritated him that he was forced to push himself away, even while at sea.

“But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.”

Peter sang the second stanza with a much unneeded gusto, an empty smile curled on his lips as he addressed Elias with an open hand.

“ Crossing the Bar ,” Elias stated matter-of-factly, his gaze fixed on the spreadsheet before him, “Published in 1889, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I recall you reciting it before.” He brought his chin up, flickering the intensity of his gaze to bear down on Peter’s intrusion. “A bit old for your tastes, wouldn’t you say?”

Peter hummed, the discomfort registering in how he swayed about the office. His attention was brought to one of the multitudes of shelves, plucking a tome from them and shrugging,

“I’m allowed to have an appreciation for things outside my time, aren’t I?” He discarded the book by the nearest coffee table, waltzing up and over to Elias’ desk. Elias had already returned to moving about columns and, quite obviously, was disregarding the blatant disrespect that Peter infringed against his office. How endearing it was, Peter noted as he made his way around the desk, leaning over Elias’ chair and wrapping his arms around his shoulders. He delicately leaned his cold weight against him, resting his chin on the back of Elias’ neck with a chilled exhale.

Elias, if he were any more agitated, didn’t show it beyond his body’s instinctual need to shiver in the cold.

“I appreciate you , as intrusive as you might be.” Peter mused aloud, smirking against his skin. Elias huffed in response, in the typical roundabout way that he thought was him being upset with Peter, but they both knew there was truth to his words. 

“It is rude to ask a gentleman his age, Peter.” Elias retorted, “Even more so if you make an effort to point it out to him. Didn’t your mother teach you the basics of etiquette?”

Peter pressed a cold, delicate kiss to Elias’ neck and stifled a chuckle, “She didn’t teach me anything, actually. Really, Elias. I would’ve thought you would’ve known this by now.”

“You don’t exactly make it easy.” Elias spoke, breaking away from the keyboard to address the man who hung across him like a desperate puppy, pawing for his attention.

Peter rose one hand to cup Elias’ cheek, calloused fingers caressing it softly. “Am I supposed to?” Peter asked, turning his head to stare. Elias had paused his work, the stern expression the most delightful deterrent and the perfect excuse for Peter to leave, to satiate that need for repulsion in his heart.

And all the same, Peter had dug his hooks in deep.

“No, I don’t suppose you are.” Elias finally said.

Peter took that as an open invitation, sliding himself around to take a comfortable seat on Elias’ lap, straddling him between both legs. Elias knitted his brows together, the slightest frown taking form as he was barred from his work.

“However,” Elias added, maneuvering his arms to snake around Peter and relax on his keyboard. “That doesn’t mean you impose yourself at every availability to make things difficult .”

“Oh? And here I thought you wanted a distraction. What was it you said earlier? This budget is giving me a headache? ” Peter chimed heartily, a mischievous glint in his vacant eyes.

“And I also recall saying not to intrude on my office without knocking, Peter.” Elias sniped. Not that Peter particularly cared, crowding Elias as far into his own chair as he could muster. Elias’ stare narrowed, unable to right himself with the pressing weight against him.

Peter tilted his head and raised both brows. “Well, Elias?”

Elias scoffed, surrendering to wrap his arms around Peter’s waist, ”Fine. But don’t think you can get away with this again.”

Peter most certainly did.

Peter grinned as he dipped Elias into the first of many kisses.

“Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness or farewell,

When I embark;”

Peter spoke the third stanza to Elias, who sat stiffly with his back against the chair, head arched backwards so he could stare down his visitor. Elias didn’t blink. He never did. His gaze wasn’t fond, but wasn’t vicious. Just sharp, distant, and analytical. 

“Again with the poem.” Elias started, pulling himself forward and straightening up. To see him in such a state - hair somewhat unkempt, wrinkles and creases within his typically pressed suit, and a fatigued quality to his frame. Nothing not Elias, however, just… mortal , from a glance. Sure, he was still put together, and still grooming himself according to his standards, but this place was by no means the ivory tower of his Institute, nor his chromium throne. 

And yet, the leniencies he must be allowed in prison. Everyone, under his thumb. A pity he couldn’t get dry cleaning, or Peter might’ve believed everyone to be under his heel.

“Lost weight recently?” Peter commented as he rocked forward on his heels, pacing the room and inspecting every bland corner he could find rather than address Elias physically. “I felt like the poem was fitting. Especially once I win the bet.”

Neither comments were received well, Elias exhaling heavily as he folded his arms in his lap, a soft clink of metal from the cuffs around his wrist.

“Is there a reason for the unannounced visit, Peter? I don’t recall giving you visitation rights.” Elias asked, a touch too loudly. If he was trying to get someone’s attention, it wasn’t going to work. Peter had seen to that.

Elias knew that. The question was still pertinent.

Peter finally waltzed over to the table, leaning onto the edge of it with folded arms. “Oh, I just came to have a chat with my husband.” He spoke aloud, gesturing to the walls with an open palm. “Surely you’ve gotten bored playing pretend in here, haven’t you?” 

“Whatever do you mean?” Elias shot back, an inquisitive expression. Fake, naturally, as Peter’s frown told that he knew Elias was intentionally provoking him. It was always like that with him, fishing for answers he already knew and getting a rise out of people. Peter not-so-pleasantly slammed his hand down onto the table, flaring his nostrils. Elias didn’t so much as flinch, lulling his head to one side like a curious cat. Mocking.

“You know what I mean, Elias.” Peter started, voice low. “You’re more than capable of leaving whenever you wanted, but you’re still here. Someone would think you’re a princess in a tower.”

“And what exactly would leaving achieve?” Elias hummed, crossing one leg over the other and maintaining that stiff, professional demeanour about him. Without the giving interior, this could be considered just to be another office visit, with Elias being every bit stubborn, and Peter being every bit irritated by his husband’s calm and collected veneer. 

“Let’s say, for hypothetical reasons, I escape this place.” Elias started, pushing himself up and out of his chair to stand up and address Peter. A stray glance went to the cameras nestled in the corner of the visitor’s room, but quickly returned to his guest. “Where exactly would that put me? Free, yes, but a wanted man.” He stretched his arms out as far as he could before his cuffs stopped him, the metal rattling. “And that’s a touch inconvenient, isn’t it? I couldn’t exactly return to my Institute if I wanted to. Suffice it to say, I am quite trapped here.”

Peter’s face hardened, not bothering to search for any possible hidden connotations in Elias’ words. There was no point, given that Elias raised a perfect point. He’d be flocked to by the police in a matter of seconds. Elias may be a man of many talents, but it would get him killed if he did anything short of a risky play.

The captain rolled his eyes, stepping his weight away from the table to guide his hands onto Elias’ waist. “...I suppose you are.” Peter surrendered, but not without an absent smirk. “If I were feeling generous, I would offer you an exit. But I don’t think so. How many wins would that make this now?”

Elias huffed through his nose, clearly displeased that Peter’s mind was more on his win streak than it was his husband’s imprisonment. Telling of the man’s priorities. “It would make it your twentieth.” Elias reminded him, staring up at him, “Really, for a man who gloats as much as you, it would do you well to remember one of these days.”

“Maybe I just want to hear you tell me.” Peter tugged Elias closer, bowing his head. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

Elias brought both arms up, careful to work them up and over Peter’s head, before resting his hands on his shoulders, the cuffs cold and tight against his neck. He pulled down on it, arching Peter to his level. 

“I’m starting to think your visits are only to boost that bloated ego of yours.” Elias said plainly, intones of faux disappointment.

“What can I say?” Peter pressed their heads together, voice just above a whisper. “You do make it rather easy to.”

Elias exhaled sharply, bringing his hands up and cup Peter through his unkempt beard before sinking him into a deep, indulgent kiss. Stinging and numbing all the same, the sensation that Elias had found himself missing. Peter’s grip tightened, the faintest, delighted noise of surprise escaping him as he started to sway, leading Elias into the gentle rockings of a slow waltz. There was no music, but the bradycardia of Peter’s heart was steady enough for them both to move to, feet shuffling lazily against the concrete.

“You’re insufferable.” Elias murmured once he’d pulled away, resting his head against Peter’s chest.

“I aim to please.” Peter chuckled, angling Elias’ chin up to kiss him again.

“For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.”

Jonah murmured the final stanza to the empty air as he walked the length pier. He was bundled in a coat that was far too large on him, a coat that carried the scent of sea foam and forgotten fog. 

It didn’t do anything to keep him warm. 

It was good at keeping the chill in his bones.

Jonah continued, his steps echoed on the boardwalk across the aged wood. It creaked and gave way as he crossed it, his eyes cutting through the morning mist that blanketed the port. Shapes, distant and close, loomed over him with groaning metal, the ships imposing their weight and presence lording over the single man. Nothing else stirred here, in the early dawn. If they did, none of them heeded Jonah’s slow pace toward the edge.

Jonah stopped short of the end. His hands were buried in the coat’s pocket, watching as his clouded breath mingled with the mist. He retreated his nose into the grey scarf wrapped securely around his neck, gaze pointed down at the dark waters. Nothing but the reflection of Elias Bouchard, right back at him. A sigh left him, unblinking as he turned back to the fog and ocean ahead. Jonah wasn’t sure what else he could do, but Watch The Tundra as it sat a few miles from port, distantly waiting for her captain.

Perhaps it would be polite to pass the news along. 

Jonah was not polite.

Jonah withdrew himself from the echoing ship, the wailing of her hull on steady waters enough to deter him from overseeing an empty deck. 

Jonah stood, silent, preoccupying himself. Unsure of what to say. If there was anything to say. He stood still and for a considerable amount of uncertain time that someone had bothered to notice him in the first place. Jonah noticed it in the twitching of the fog that had made itself welcome at curling by his feet and up his legs, and how hastily it had retreated in the warmth of someone else.

The Watcher silently hoped that when he turned around, there would be that genial grin, devoid of emotion that Jonah had long found comfort in.

It was a silly hope, when he had already been fed knowledge of what transpired.

“Waitin’ for someone?” The person - Robert Andrews, 31, divorced, single father, working at the IT Department a few blocks from here - called as he approached. Jonah didn’t bother to turn his head to address him. His silence persisted, the sharp needles of ice digging further and further into his chest. 

Jonah’s body shuddered an uneasy and pained exhale, attempting to hide his discomfort. 

“I was.” He responded. “But I don’t think they’re coming.”

Jonah’s response, he could tell, drew on a sympathetic frown of concern from Robert Andrews - who’d committed insurance fraud in his past, who’d cheated on his wife a few years ago, who felt guilty ever since that day - and noted Robert Andrews’ slow approach to stand by Jonah’s side

“Oh, I’m… sorry to hear it. Somethin’ happen?” He asked, a question that was innocent on the surface, but really, Jonah couldn’t answer. Not in his truth.

“He went out to sea.” Jonah spoke plainly. “I’m waiting for him to come back.”

Robert Andrews - who loved and cherished his children, who’d really loved his spouse, who’d thrown it all away, who’d made mistake after mistake, who’d never said the things he wished he said - went silent. A man who didn’t know how to use words, and he evidently couldn’t start now.

Jonah broke away from the fog, turning to address Robert Andrews. Blue, sharp eyes pierced the thin veil of the mind, narrowing with the very intensity of the biting morning fog.

“You should go back to Marie and apologise.” Jonah started, “She misses you almost every day. The children, Bonnie and Tiffany, miss you more. They’d be more than willing to forgive you for your transgressions, given that you mean it.”

Robert Andrews - confused, bewildered, perplexed by this strange man with eyes that seemed to unwrap and pierce every layer of his existence - stammered,

“I’m- sorry, what? Who are you again? Do I- do I know you?”

“You’re going to keep regretting it if you don’t, Mister Andrews.” Jonah continued. “You’ve never had the courage, and you knew that ever since that night you cheated on her. Go and say something.” Jonah turned his attention back to the sea, to the nothingness beyond. “Or you’ll regret it when she’s gone.”

Robert Andrews shook his head and stumbled backward. Was this a fever dream? He’d thought, which Jonah could so blatantly hear. If it was a sign from any God that possibly existed in this world, this would be it, Robert Andrews.

He fled, leaving Jonah alone with the fog reclaiming the pier.

Jonah’s body shook again. He wasn’t sure why. It ached, and it numbed, and it was almost the same. Almost that comforting, winter drape over his shoulders, a pressed weight against his body. There was no voice that carried with this. There was no hum, no song, no poem that spoke. An empty silence, that permeated everything and anything he’d touched, with no regard of Jonah if he were to leave.

Everything had been soaked in sentiment, and Jonah couldn’t let it go. He didn’t want to let go.

“Good bye, Peter.” Jonah raised his chin, staring out into the ocean. His voice wavered, not in a crack, but in lacking the distinct, sharp edges that his words would cut with. There was no presence in it. 

There was no returning farewell.

Jonah turned on his heel, and started his slow retreat back to his Institute. He turned the collar up on the coat.

The cold ached. His body hurt. 

His heart burned in absence.


	7. bad communication LonesomeDreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bad communication  
> LonesomeDreamer
> 
> elias and peter have called it off again, and elias is thrilled to have won this round—but perhaps he isn't as happy as he convinces himself he is.
> 
> I was feeling inspired after observing TMA twitter. A nearly-empty document was sitting open on my computer with this title, and I pulled some old + new ideas together and ended up with this!  
> Work Text:  
> That’s it. I’m done. Finished. Utterly finished!

Elias was fuming even as he pulled out his phone and rang his divorce lawyer, fingers shaking as he stabbed out the number. It took two rings for the call to be picked up on the other end of the line; it took even less from Elias to get his point across to the barrister, who had been handling his paperwork for admittedly quite a long time.

“It’s Bouchard. Get—”

“Yes, sir, I’ll have the papers sent over right away,” the attorney sighed tiredly, before hanging up the phone with a click. Elias let the device tumble from his fingers to the top of his desk without so much as a look down; it came to rest atop the mahogany amidst several file folders and a cup of tea long gone cold.

He has nerve, he has, thinking he can attempt to embarrass me like that and get away with that!

Even in his own thoughts, he was loath to admit to being humiliated—but it was impossible for him to ignore the cold gnawing at his chest from the inside out. As much as he wanted to chalk it up to a draft in the room, or a fault in the heating of his own home—home, it hurts to call this a home in this mess of emptiness—, he knew the truth better than he cared to admit. Things were quiet and empty, something he found himself bitterly acknowledging as different than what he wanted.

How is this not what I wanted? I’ve gotten what I want!

Elias picked up the cup of tea from its saucer, lifting the silver spoon and delicately lowering it into the cold drink. After a moment or two of stirring, he had a sip; almost immediately, he grimaced and set the cup down again.

“It’ll be in the bin with that,” he muttered, running the tip of his tongue over his lips and trying to ignore how comfortable he had grown with the cold—Peter runs cold, his skin is always so frigid against my own—and the memories that accompanied the sensation.

“Shame to waste perfectly good tea. Oh well.”

He rose to his feet and crossed the room in four short strides, reaching for the door and shutting it with no small amount of force before returning to his desk and opening up a file folder. It took very little time for Elias to busy himself once more; consequently, when three sharp knocks rapped upon his office door he was nearly startled out of his seat—only nearly, thanks to the fortunate foresight of the Beholding.

“Do come in,” he drawled, setting down his file folder. “You’ve made excellent time.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Bouchard, just sign the papers,” his lawyer muttered sourly, setting the papers upon Elias’s desk and waiting expectantly.

Elias picked up his pen, dipped it in jet black ink with a bit of a flourish, and signed his name on the line. Each letter flowed together in smooth, practiced cursive; the very spacing of the letters in the space suggested that he’d had plenty of prior experience in signing those documents.

“Very well, I’ve graced your paperwork with my name. Now send it off,” he muttered, turning back to his files as he pushed the papers back across the desk. The attorney quickly picked them up and hurried off, unwilling to aggravate Elias if the situation did not call for it.

Elias didn’t so much as blink as his office door closed once more.

He deserves it, for what he tried to do to me. I’ve got my revenge.

~XXXXX~

It was rare for Elias Bouchard to admit to regretting doing something—he prided himself on the very opposite, as a matter of fact, and it was practically a matter of principle for him to never decry one of his own actions as wrong. There was a great deal of his own personal pride wrapped up in the matter, and his pride was certainly something he valued.  
But, perhaps just this once, all that was for naught.

He’d taken to pacing his office, anxious footfalls on the ground breaking up the quiet that surrounded him. His own heartbeat had drifted somewhere up into his ears, thudding away with a constant ostinato that seemed to only serve to mock him in his every waking moment. When he wasn’t working, or pacing, or even so much as talking into the empty air, the silence was crushing; it deafened the very color of his surroundings, drawing him deeper into the abyss of his own damned feelings that had become far too lonely for his own tastes.

To fold first was more than an embarrassment—it was an outrage, a scandal, a black mark on his own treasured pride—, but as the days dragged on without Peter no twisted happiness blossomed within his heart. Usually, he would have been pleased—thrilled, even—to have had the last say in one of their spats, but there was some strange temporal sensation plaguing him that was far from the typical smug joy he felt in the aftermath of a divorce.

Elias knew, heart sinking in his chest, that he’d made a mistake. He Knew, and he knew that he’d erred.

Despite dwelling in this realm of recognition, however, he had made no attempt to reverse his choice. To do so would be an outright admission of his error, and as painful as self-realization was an outward acknowledgment would be far worse. He’d settled on waiting for Peter to call.

But Peter didn’t call.

Time dragged on, and the phone remained silent. No calls, no messages, nothing.

Peter didn’t call, and Elias felt the loneliness brooding in his heart smile coquettishly and bask in the glory of it all.

And still, Peter did not call.

Peter did not have to call, in the end, for in a fit of self-pity Elias snatched up his phone and dialed the number sitting at the front of his mind—Peter’s, of course. The call completed barely one ring before the line connected; no words were spoken, but he could hear the gentle lull of waves and knew he’d reached the man he’d wanted to phone.

“...Peter?”

~XXXXX~

The room was silent, the lights darkened. Not even the animals stirred outside amidst the gloom of the wee hours of the morning, as it was far too early for anyone to be up. The bed was soft and cozy in the midst of this quiet night, a little island haven in the oceanic expanse of darkness.  
“All in a fit of imprudence...”

Peter blinked owlishly, opening his eyes to the darkness and taking a moment to let himself adjust to the pitch of the night. The captain shifted slightly before he sat up fully in bed and stared at his husband, confusion written all over his face.

“‘m sorry, what?”

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

Elias’s words were barely a whisper; the Brit was sitting up and staring straight forward across the room, curls partially obscuring his eyes. It was half past three in the morning, and although he did experience the occasional bit of trouble with getting to sleep this was not one of those events. Rather, the weight of his own thoughts had finally gotten to him after god knows how long he’d tried to ignore them—or perhaps it wasn’t thoughts, but feelings.

“...Elias, I may not be aligned with the Eye, but I’m not stupid. Tell me what you said,” the captain sighed, his tone that of one long-suffering.

“It’s nothing, Peter,” Elias replied coldly, although his voice seemed distant. “Nothing—nothing for you to bother yourself over.”

“...I see.”

Elias had turned his head away after he’d spoken; if he’d been willing to acknowledge it, he might have admitted he felt half-ashamed at the coldness in his own voice. He was halfway to opening his mouth and elaborating on something to the same effect when a pair of arms wrapped around his midriff.

“Peter, what—”

“I see, Elias,” Peter cut him off softly, and for once Elias didn’t respond as the captain pulled him closer. He realized with a sudden startling clarity that, there in Peter’s arms, he felt quite warm.

He’s so warm…

Before he could even fully recognize what was happening, let alone try to avoid it, tears had begun to pool in his eyes. They ran down his cheeks, hot and sticky; he buried his face in his husband’s chest, finally ceasing the disguising of his embarrassment as blood rose to his cheeks.

“It’s alright,” Peter said quietly.

“I hardly think it is, Peter,” Elias muttered bitterly, before lapsing into silence. He was too tired and too overwhelmed by his own mental goings-on to say much else.

“...well, I say otherwise, Elias Bouchard,” Peter replied softly, and the name fell from his lips delicately sugared with a fondness that eased the lonely ache in Elias’s chest. The captain tightened his arms around the smaller man and pressed a kiss atop the curls. “I do say otherwise, and you should listen to me.”

“Perhaps I will, this once,” Elias mused, feigning actual consideration, but he had neither refused the closeness nor rejected the kiss. He let his eyes close as he set his head against the captain’s shoulder. “Perhaps, Peter.”

It was in this manner that Elias finally fell asleep, and Peter dared not move to disturb the man even as sleep descended upon his own head. When dawn broke, the two were still in each other’s arms.


	9. last ones LonesomeDreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> last ones  
> LonesomeDreamer
> 
> in the aftermath of a few bad decisions, they meet again.  
> Notes:
> 
> HAHAHAHAHA yup another tma twitter fic posted by yours truly at uhm 1AM that's fine. totally fine. some of the lines in this (namely some dialogue and thoughts) were inspired/paraphrased/lifted from @/peterllovesyou and @/eliasbtolerates on twitter. y'all are amazing and I swear I haven't had this much inspiration in like ever. I've sat down and written two long fics in the same week!! also yes I wrote two paragraphs about elias being exhausted based on my own exhaustion and physical pain. I needed a reference. side note, I usually avoid present tense in writing but for some unexplainable reason I couldn't seem to deal with this story in another format so enjoy my horrible present tense attempt! anyways, enjoy and please leave a comment below if you enjoyed the insane ramblings brought on by my 3AM writing sessions (some of this doesn't make sense at all I'm so sorry...). sorry for the long notes!!  
> Work Text:

“So.”

The silence between them is deafening. It yawns, arising from its slumber, and opens its gaping maw even further to widen the divide between them like some vast sinkhole consuming the fabric of their tempered quiet. There isn’t much else between them, and the little buffer that was there is now gone; it’s just the two of them standing alone, oh-so-uncomfortably alone despite the togetherness of it all.

Elias’s words are still hanging in the air, like dying whispers borne upon the stillness between himself and Peter. Any heat that might have once lingered in his tone has completely dissolved; the words flutter like teardrops, rather than embers from the fire of their passions, as they evaporate into pure emptiness and fodder for thought.

“So…”

It had all started inside, this day, with Elias stepping through one door and seeking to speak to Peter. The captain had only just realized that something was afoot when the other man appeared; nevertheless, despite this sudden sense, it was still somewhat surprising for him to see his ex-husband standing nervously in front of him. The two had stared blankly at one another for what felt like eons, uncertain what to say or do.

Elias nervous is practically an oxymoron in most cases, for the man in question would rarely be seen without his usual cool facade. At that moment, however, he appeared a far cry from his usual put-together self. It was barely even a confrontation; he’d offered a few weak words before devolving into an almost-wholly emotion-based apology, occasionally pausing to let Peter get a word in edgewise. That was enough time to give the captain a moment to stand up for himself—not necessarily a normal action for him, either, but this whole day seems to be tuned to the odd.

And now they’re standing there, still staring at each other as if the other will have a solution for what to do. They’ve made their way to the uppermost deck, by this point, and Elias finds it telling that he can’t quite remember how they got there. Perhaps he’s been too focused on choosing his words properly, or ignoring the various observances of the Eye, or the guilt sitting in his chest that he’s tried and failed to suppress.

Or, perhaps, he’s been too focused on Peter.

The captain stands before him, feet planted on the deck and hands in hip pockets. It is all Elias can do to not drink in the image presented before him; as if Peter’s appearance was not already in effect tailored to his fancies—or perhaps his dreams have become tailored to the captain’s image—, the time between them has only brutally intensified the brooding hunger in his heart. There’s something about seeing Peter framed against the ship’s railing that strikes a match in the shorter man’s chest, and despite the damp sorrow puddling there a flame bursts into existence to relight the lamp of burning longing that hangs delicately within Elias’s being.

Soft static fills the background, barely noticeable under the breeze. The wind is heavy with mist, delicate and light on the skin; against the face, it’s far softer than the wretched sting of lonely tears. Though the Tundra is docked, the waves still push the ship to and fro with a barely-noticeable rocking motion. On any other occasion, the sensation might have driven Elias to—at the very least—mild nausea; in the moment, however, the rocking is gentle and still enough that it is almost like the comforting motion of a mother tending to her child’s crib, or the calming embrace of a friend.

Friends, perhaps?

They could, at the very least, be tentative acquaintances again, but ‘friends’ doesn’t feel right to Elias. It’s never felt right, in all honesty. He and Peter have never quite been friends—lovers, enemies, teammates perhaps. They have been numerous things in the just as many years that they’ve known each other, but—despite all of that—to say ‘friends’ feels foreign and disconcerting. As he’s pondering all of this, the meaning of the as-of-now-still-broken relationship he has with Peter, he becomes aware of the captain’s lingering gaze and allows a quiet sigh to escape his lips.

“What is it, Peter?”

Although he ought to expect it by this point, having known Elias for so long, Peter still finds himself occasionally caught off-guard by the uncanniness of a question plucked from thin air. Elias’s tone is gentler at present, so the shock isn’t perhaps as extreme as previous instances of momentary confusion—but the captain is fairly certain there will never be a day where the most daintily-applied workings of the Beholding do not at least mildly startle him.

He lets his gaze drop to Elias’s shoes, noting idly that the man’s oxfords are somewhat scuffed—as if they have recently made angered contact with the floor, or with a wall, or with some particularly unfortunate chair legs—and the laces are slightly looser than normal, before looking up at a pace slow enough to be recognized as hesitant but not so slow as to be truly prolonged. It’s almost excruciating to him, making such a concerted effort to hold himself back from what he wants to do—it’s only been a few days and yet—and say. As his gaze pans upward, he lets himself take in the general state of Elias’s dress; something in the back of his mind tells him that the suit the man is wearing—wearing is a stretch, so far from put-together is Elias—is the same suit from the day they parted.

Why wear it for days? That’s not at all like him…

He takes several moments to fully take in what Elias looks like; although they’ve been speaking in somewhat hushed tones for a decent amount of time—he doesn’t know how long it’s been, time without Elias seems to stretch on forever and he hasn’t been keeping track—, he never truly gave the man a once-over during their conversation.

Elias’s hair is messy and disheveled, matching his overall state of being. The lines around his eyes, as well as the darkness there, suggest that he hasn’t slept for a considerable amount of time; his face seems particularly drawn and wan. Peter finds himself wanting to reach out and take Elias’s face in his hands, just to run his thumbs over the man’s cheekbones, but he holds himself back with no small amount of restraint. The rest of Elias’s appearance is in a similar state of disarray; both his suit jacket and his vest are unbuttoned, revealing that only one shirttail is tucked in while the other remains untucked, and his tie is loosened to the point of almost being undone.

He can certainly pull that off, but he looks rather poorly...

As much as Peter can appreciate seeing the shorter man in such a condition, however, there is a larger portion of him concerned with how on earth Elias sank to such a low place. He gives the other man what he thinks is a worried look and receives a dismissive hand-wave in response, as if Elias knows exactly what he is thinking and wants to dissuade him from his concern; this does little to ease the captain’s mind, but he pushes those thoughts out of his mind and brings to the forefront what he suddenly has the courage to say.

“I’m...I’m not a toy you can just throw away,” Peter says quietly, almost timidly, but the muted tone of his voice is no match for the fact that he is standing up for himself in a direct way that’s rarely happened before. To disappear into the Forsaken is his typical victory, but this is straightforward and demanding of a response—and Elias knows it. The shorter man exhales softly, running a hand through unkempt dark curls and closing his eyes for barely a moment before he looks up at Peter with an almost mournful expression.

“I know, Peter. I—I made bad decisions. I never really put any thought into how you might feel, and that is—that is entirely my fault,” Elias manages quietly, swallowing hard, and Peter’s immediate reply is only a small nod as he begins to attempt to make sense of the slush of his own feelings on the matter.

Elias is left to stand quietly as the captain thinks, and as he stands the weight of the past few days seems to crash upon his shoulders. It hurts to hold his head up—his pride might be wounded, yes, but at this point the resigned state exhaustion he’s practically become one with has seeped into his bones. He lets his head hang back ever-so-slightly and winces as his neck cracks; the pain shimmies down the back of his neck, along his spine, and creeps into his back. It’s not more than a dull ache, but it’s been there for days and it won’t go away.

There’s an almost wooziness to the exhaustion, to the point where he’s swaying slightly—not around his feet, mind you, Elias wouldn’t dare lose that much control over himself, but the weight of his head wants to pull his skull into a gentle back-and-forth. He can feel the ache spreading, down through his hips and his knees, and he exhales through his nose in bitter humor. Every blink seems in slow-motion, every tilt of the head an exaggerated effort. Even his hands feel stiff—and, when he looks at them, he is reminded of just how empty the space between his fingers is, and his heart clenches. It isn’t just physical, although the effort of keeping the Eyes open is quite draining; by this point, he’s fallen to actually acknowledging the emotional turmoil he’s enduring.

To part from Peter is painful.

To part from Peter is painful, and Elias is prepared to open his mouth and say just as much when the captain clears his throat and breaks the secondary silence that’s fallen around them. He immediately looks up to meet the sailor’s gaze, and the two stare at each other for a wordless moment before silence falls back around them. They are framed by the mist and the railing, the waves gently lapping against the hull of the ship far below, the dull static filling the background; the cargo, the docks, the world has all fallen away and left them there alone as they gaze at each other.

“I don’t think I can stand one more second without you, Elias.”

The words leave Peter’s lips with such an aching rush that it’s as if he’s been holding them in, keeping them sealed inside the depths of the heart he swears he doesn’t have time for. He’s reached out for Elias before he can stop himself, hands settling on the man’s shoulders and inadvertently pulling him near. They’re so close together, in fact, that the captain can see the way Elias’s lower lip is trembling slightly—did I do something wrong?—and the indescribable sentiment rising in his eyes.

“I would lose it all just to be with you again,” Elias replies softly, breath quickening with a hazy ardor that he can only attribute to the confession newly freed from his tongue. “My mind is with you, Peter, and it has been throughout...all of this. I...”

He trails off into silence as Peter takes his hands, filling the emptiness there; they stand together with their hands clasped, reveling in the simplicity of the touch, unwilling to part or step away. It is only then that Elias realizes the static in the background is not the hum of the Lonely that so often accompanies Peter, but rather a white noise most akin to the sound of a radio not quite tuned to pick up a station. His brow furrows in delicate confusion, and Peter laughs in a way that fills Elias’s chest with a throbbing joy.

“We can take it one step at a time. Let’s just be here, together. It’s enough, isn’t it?” he says, stepping away for a brief moment—drawing hunger back into Elias’s throat—before revealing the source of the noise to be a record player. He lets the needle drop with a delicate hand, and Elias steps closer to meet him.

“We can dance. Properly dance….I don’t think we’ve done that in a while,” he says quietly, reaching for the captain’s hand and lacing their fingers together. Peter smiles faintly, pulling Elias close to his chest and savoring their shared warmth.

“We haven’t, have we?” he hums. “I can lead this time.”

Soft music begins to pour forth from the record player, gentle chords that fade into the colors of the swirling sunset that frames them upon the Tundra’s deck. Bare triads and thirds echo in the expanse of blush-tinged sky ebbing into the navy of night, each note rising and soaring higher until it is once more pulled to the top of the ship where they stand in each other’s arms. Elias struggles to cling to what he knows is real, but he is falling desperately into the quiet fantasies of the music; beneath his skin there is a part of him that wants to twirl and spin in never-ending circles, entwined in Peter’s arms for eternity. He has become part of the other man, he thinks, or perhaps they’ve become part of each other, but it isn’t quite the time for spinning. Though his heart might leap at the thought, he knows that sort of gaiety and fluid motion isn’t yet where they’re at—but he longs to be as close as he possibly can to Peter, and the pangs of longing have little want to leave.

There’s something gnawing at his chest, a fear that threatens to tear him apart and apart from the captain, and although he’s normally one to brush off those fears this one seems to hit home. Both men can feel it, winding in dizzyingly tight loops around their feet. There, in the quiet of the lull in the song’s lyrics, Elias sets his head upon Peter’s chest; the captain wraps his arms around the shorter man and the two sway softly back and forth, buried in each other’s longing.

Two slow dancers...

Even when the song ends, Elias just stands there and sways gently and takes comfort in the closeness of it all. He isn’t always one for closeness, and it hasn’t even been that long, but it feels like it’s been forever and he’s starving for comfort—for the together again. The hunger hurts terribly, so bad that it has taken over his bones and it’s closed his throat in on itself; his heart thuds in his chest—it’s just the two of us—and, quite suddenly, he feels light, lighter than anything, as if his heart is the only dead weight in his body—and his heart is somewhere in his throat, clouding the words he wants to speak with an emotion that sullies them to imperfection. He lets them die on his tongue, leaving each syllable to be forever unspoken, for the silence needs no interruption.

He stands there, lighter than everything around him, acknowledging in disbelief his strangely newfound sense of groundedness despite the sudden and awkward fragility of his form. In their existence, in their togetherness, there’s grounding to be found, and he wonders why he ever wanted to leave any of that behind. Part of him wonders, in tones of pathetic melancholy, if perhaps there is a way that this might be forever—no more being apart—, but the jagged sense of reality tears him back down to earth—after all, it’s part of who I am, isn’t it?—with no regard for the pain it leaves in its wake. Moreso than that, though, he wants nothing more than for things to pause there. To stay the same, if that were only possible.

“Elias?”

Peter’s voice is soft and distant, as if coming from some mystic location worlds away, and it’s almost hard for Elias to make it out through the accumulating mental fog. In the moment, Elias lifts his head from Peter’s chest and raises a hand to the captain’s jaw; he has no need to beg for a kiss because they’re both thinking about the exact same thing. Elias’s lips meet Peter’s, and the captain has a hand in his hair and the floaty feeling only increases and persists to encompass the entirety of Elias’s body—but now, he doesn’t want it to stop.

I’ve really missed him...

It’s achingly foreign and familiar all at once, almost bitter to begin with, as if the world is restarting around them. Each touch is delicate and hesitant, as if one might break were the other to be too rough; despite its best attempts, however, the slow nature of it all can do little to hide the feeling rekindled within them. It isn’t yet passion—perhaps it is too soon for that, after all—, but it is blissful and loving. They kiss, and there might have been something bitter in it to start but it isn’t bitter for long.

“One step at a time?” Peter asks quietly, stepping away, and there’s something in his eyes that makes Elias’s chest seize up. He can’t quite put a name to it, even as he tries to Know what it is, but he can tell that it’s caring and longing and right and for once that’s all that matters to him.

“One step at a time, Peter,” Elias replies softly in agreement, before stepping back into the captain’s arms and cozying into his chest. It doesn’t take much for the two of them to begin swaying again; there’s no need for music, not anymore, and an invisible rhythm takes hold in their motion. There, beneath the swiftly-darkening sky, Elias lets himself fully relax. The shutting of the Eyes lifts a massive weight from his shoulders; exhaustion rumbles over him like a thunderhead budding over the plains and he soon falls prey to its calling. The captain’s grip is comforting and warm—and, after all, if truth be told Peter makes a wonderful pillow.

It is there that they dance, and it is there that Peter discovers Elias has fallen asleep in his arms while standing beneath the stars. He of all people knows Elias almost inside and out, and this quiet slumber is a silent admission to his tiredness—and a testament to the safety he feels, there in Peter’s arms.

He looks so much younger when he’s sleeping, like the weight of the world is off of him…

With careful hands, he lifts Elias into his arms and descends into the depths of the ship to find a suitable place for the man to rest. It is more than clear to the captain that Elias is exhausted, and the sooner that he rests the sooner he will feel better—that much, Peter knows from dual experience.

Perhaps, in due time, he will wake Elias up, and they will share dinner and talk. All quiet conversation, of course—one step at a time. There will be things to deal with, words to be said and messes to be cleaned and wounds to be soothed and places to go together.

But it isn’t quite that time yet.

For now, Peter is more than content to sit by Elias’s side and keep quiet watch. Perhaps it is not yet a complete togetherness, but they are indeed together again—and that is the very first step.


	11. Romance on the High Seas indefensibleselfindulgence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boat is only technically his, belonging to the Lukas estate more than to any singular one of them. It's a little cramped for his liking, but it's an old thing that Elias liked to spend an occasional weekend on. A nice vintage, relative silence occasionally interspersed with something crooning on an old record player, and a bed the two of them can barely fit in.   
> Notes:
> 
> this file is called lonelyeyes f.odt on my laptop (the f stands for press f to pay respects for me not having a boat)  
> (See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:  
He looks pleased. 

Peter doesn't say it out loud, because Elias and his unbearably fragile ego will annihilate any kind of joy this evening has been steadily accumulating, but it's there, on his face. It's so rare so see him pleased with something other than paperwork or regular work, so he's going to cherish the moment. Really laze in it. The barely there smile on Elias' face, the one that manages to reach his eyes. 

The boat rocks gently, the ocean lapping at the bow, and the candles he lit earlier barely flickering. Dinner is a quiet affair, for once. Elias makes him laugh twice, and Peter makes Elias laugh four times, not that he's counting of course. 

“Maybe after this, we can go to that one little place in Gengenbach- you remember right?” 

“No.” He doesn't make a particularly large habit of visiting Germany. “That must have been with someone else.” 

“I've gotten you cake from there, two birthdays ago.” 

“The-” He tries to think back, and he's not even sure where he was on his birthday two years ago. “The dark chocolate one-” 

“That's it.” Elias has a bit of a fixation with his birthdays, not that Elias would ever admit it because god forbid he ever shows an ounce of sincerity in anything. Elias knew, the way that he knew most things, that Peter hadn't had much in the line of celebrations growing up. Not much a surprise there, but the fact that Elias has decided to impose himself into what used to be an empty day is, well. Very Elias of him. 

“It was nice.” 

“Hm.” Elias leans back in his chair, legs crossed and eyes closed, head tilted just a bit in a picturesque repose. 

“More wine?” 

“Go ahead.” Peter gets up and heads into the small cabin. 

The boat is only technically his, belonging to the Lukas estate more than to any singular one of them. It's a little cramped for his liking, but it's an old thing that Elias liked to spend an occasional weekend on. A nice vintage, relative silence occasionally interspersed with something crooning on an old record player, and a bed the two of them can barely fit in. 

He never comes out on her alone, which is why the boat usually sits in dry dock. He holds a preference to larger vessels in general, for obvious reasons, but this is nice. Just a little dusty at times. 

Elias hasn't moved when he comes back, but the cloud cover over the moon did. With the sea almost at a stand still it's like an infinite mirror, with the moon and the stars reflected. 

Peter pours him the wine. Elias barely reacts, eyes still closed, though he does sit up a little straighter. 

“Hello.” He says. 

“Hello Peter.” On occasion, Elias will move slowly, when he's calm or content or, dare Peter say it, pleased. Relaxed and languid, which Peter thinks is a very good look on him, personally. “It's a beautiful night.” 

And then Elias' eyes finally open. 

“And just my luck.” Peter says, as he sets the bottle on the table. “I get to spend it with a beautiful man.” 

“Do you?” And there's the smile again- not that it's really left, more like it's been renewed- on Elias' face. 

“Unless of course, he decided to swim away from me.” 

“He might.” And before Peter sits back down, Elias raises, hand sliding along the small of Peter's back, his other hand digging into the front of his sweater and tugging Peter down into a kiss. He's warm- there's a lot of other things that are good about it- Elias' lips, his tongue, his teeth, the mutual desire, the implication, all of that is divine in a way only the two of them can be- but it's the warmth he always notices first. 

He doesn't get that from anyone else. 

Granted, everything else, the aggressive making out, that doesn't happen with anyone off the street either, but no one was in the business of shaking his hand, or taking his coat with lingering touches, or sitting that close when there was so much more room, no one else was so instant on sharing body heat like Elias Bouchard. 

He got cold. At least, that's what Elias liked to claim, because he's old at heart and his joints already ache, but Peter is ninety precent sure he's lying. 

Elias likes their warmth too. 

He pulls away, tasting of tart wine, and Peter can't help the smile that creeps onto his face. 

“Well?” 

“Well what.” 

“Still swimming away?” 

“We'll see how I feel in the morning.” 

Of course. 

The rest of dinner is quiet, not much left of the fish he caught earlier, and Elias, ever demure wipes his hands clean on the napkin despite not getting them dirty in the first place. Peter expects him to retire to that singular small bed, but no, once all the glassware is back inside, Elias slips off his loafers and rolls up his trousers and sits on the edge, legs in the water. 

Peter settles on beside him, choosing to lay flat on the wood instead of getting wet, so that he can watch the stars and keep an arm around his husband, looped around the waste, in case he really does decide to fling himself into the sea for whatever dramatic reason. 

Peter is never one to fill the silence, so they stay like that, Elias staring out into the endless mirror and Peter tracing constellations into Elias' side lazily while watching the stars. 

“Are you enjoying your birthday?” Elias' voice almost startles him. 

Almost. 

“It's been- yes.” 

“Very much so?” 

“Very much so, yes.” His warm hand covers Peter's, long delicate fingers tracing along rope worn lines. 

“But not perfect.” 

“Well.” Peter shrugs, an empty gesture. “You could let me take you to bed.” 

“Then take me to bed.” Elias twists around, leaning down to kiss him again. 

There's a minor outrage when Peter actually picks him up, but it's one that's quickly forgiven when Peter kisses Elias' neck, shoulders, and the rest of the way down his spine.


	12. i don't need you LonesomeDreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter returns to find Jonah in a severe state of disarray.  
> Work Text:

Six months after divorce number lord-knows-what—they’d had too many to count, by that point—, Peter phased himself out of the Lonely with a sigh and appeared in the study of Jonah Magnus. The moment his form solidified in the room, the other man’s posture straightened and became tense; Lukas immediately knew that Jonah was aware of his presence. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off.

“What are you doing here?” Magnus growled, not turning around.

“...coming home?” Peter replied, blinking slowly. The question had confused him somewhat; his answer seemed obvious.

“This isn’t your home, it’s my home,” Jonah grumbled, and the bitterness in his voice worked twofold on the sea captain. The Lonely within him was pleased by the annoyance; his own clear consciousness was marred by a strange twinge of unidentifiable emotion.

“I’m your husband. That makes it our—”

“Not anymore, you’re not!” Jonah cried shrilly, leaping to his feet and slamming his hands down on the desk. He was still facing away from Peter.

“You left. You picked a fight and left me and that’s it! It’s over, Peter. I’m sick and tired of playing your stupid games.”

This coming from Jonah was entirely new and foreign; the twisty feeling in Peter’s gut had returned, and it wasn’t pleasant. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, a combined urge to leave and yet to stay both assaulting his mind.

“I don’t know what this is about, Jonah,” he began, tone level and calm. “You’re being highly unreasonable—a key flaw of yours, really. You get too emotionally involved—”

He froze as he realized that Jonah’s stance hadn’t seemed to soften. The older Brit was still standing rigidly behind his desk, palms planted firmly on the surface.

“...Jonah, stop being ridiculous,” he said lowly, taking a few steps forward. “You’re acting like a fool. I—”

A gasp pulled itself from the captain’s lips as Magnus turned his head to look at him. The man in question seemed dreadfully ill; his cheeks were hollow, his skin was ghastly pale, and dark circles rimmed his eyes. His eyes were also quite red, although the captain couldn’t quite figure out the cause of that.

“...you need me, Jonah.”

A new tactic, perhaps?

“You wouldn’t be able to fund your experiments and the like without me. You—”

“I DON’T NEED YOU!”

The words seemed to echo inside of Peter’s brain, Jonah’s scream a desperate and painful one. He took a step forward as if to take the man’s hand, but he was rebuked.

“Don’t you dare touch me!” Magnus snapped, voice breaking jarringly. “Get out of my house, Lukas. I don’t need you, and I never have.”

“Looks like you’ve finally stopped being so obsessed with your image,” Peter laughed nervously, shifting from foot to foot.

“GET OUT!”

Infuriated, Jonah practically marched to the door of his office and began his way towards the main staircase; Peter followed him rather hastily.

“See sense on this one, Jonah!” he called out, several paces behind. “You’ve got every gift of the Beholding, surely you can—”

Jonah had flinched at the word, and confusion filled Lukas’ mind. Very slowly, like water dripping into a bucket from a tiny hole in a pipe, Peter put two and two together.

“You—you didn’t stop Feeding the Eye, did you?” he asked, eyes widening. “For all your fear of death, Jonah, you’re sometimes the dumbest man I know! Doing that is like asking to be—”

And like a ton of bricks, the second part of his deduction fell into place.

“...you thought that depriving the Eye would get me to come back. And, if it didn’t, you’d…die.”

His own voice had gone quiet, quieter than it had been in years. The squirmy feeling in his stomach was back, and it had only grown; he was starting to feel nauseous.

Is he that invested? How stupid of him.

As much as he decried his former husband as stupid, however, there was some rebellious part of him that was enraged at hearing Jonah’s words purely because it meant the older man had hurt himself over Peter.

...he did this because of me.

Jonah, swaying on the staircase, did not confirm or deny this—at least, not yet—but was saved by circumstance. His knees gave out beneath him; Peter just barely managed to close the gap between them in time to catch Magnus.

“Tell me, Jonah,” he commanded firmly. “Did you do this to get me to come back? How long has it been since you’ve last Fed? When was the last time you ate or drank?”

Jonah looked away, blue eyes—far duller than they had ever been—hazy and unfocused. He was in a state of utter deterioration; it took him far too long to even begin to speak again, and when he did his voice was raspy and quiet.

“...You must think it’s so clever of you, to just—just up and leave,” he mumbled weakly, before coughing into his hands.

Peter’s expression had gone from blank to horrified. In his mind’s eye he could see his father laconically chiding him for not being a true servant to the Lonely—god forbid he felt emotion—, but the anger and guilt in his stomach wouldn’t go away.

“I would have come back,” he found himself saying. “You should have just told me, Jonah. You—”

He paused as Jonah began to cough again, crimson droplets covering too-thin hands. With one thumb, he wiped the droplets away. The sensation of appalling guilt and horror had travelled from his solar plexus to his entire body, crawling under his skin and making him feel remarkably upset—especially considering his status as an avatar of the Lonely.

But I’ve never been perfect at that, either.

Jonah was, though—to him, at least. Jonah Magnus, with all of his cockiness and pride and narcissism, who had always been more perfect than Peter had been. Now, the man was in a state so far from his storied perfection that he was barely recognizable. Acknowledging that fact stung his heart.

“It’s been weeks, then. Months,” Peter determined quietly, before picking Jonah up and cradling him close. “I’m getting you cleaned up and healed, and then we can talk about wedding plans.”

Jonah gave a muffled little sob, face buried in Peter’s chest. Peter wrapped an arm around him, warmly, looking to comfort the poor man. He resumed climbing the stairs, this time with the older Brit nestled securely in his arms.

“No, I’m not leaving again, Jonah,” Lukas shook his head, interpreting the little whimpers and setting Jonah down onto his own bed. “After all, the Lonely does rather depend on the Eye. No wonder you’ve gotten so light…”

“It’s been very hard,” Jonah whispered, wiping blood away from his lips. “I—the Lonely really does need the Eye, you know…”

“No more words,” Peter said firmly. “Not until you’ve stopped coughing up what should stay in your veins.”

He picked up Jonah’s hand and gave it a soft kiss, uncharacteristically gentle in his actions.

“I’m so sorry, Jonah. I’m so sorry. This is...my fault.”

The action of taking credit for such a thing was foreign to him; his tongue felt heavy and awkward in his mouth, but he couldn’t even look at Jonah without the overwhelming sense of guilt filling his body.

“...I’ll get some food. And some...things for you to read. Probably the second items first,” he mumbled, standing up. “But I’ll get you into bed before that.”

He bent over Jonah’s body and began to help the man off with his shoes. Eventually, he’d gotten the older Brit into a proper pair of pajamas.

“That should do it,” he muttered, tucking Jonah into bed and smoothing the covers under the man’s chin. “Comfortable?”

“In pain,” Jonah grimaced, still looking just as horrible as he had before. “But I’ll live. Go on, now. Go and get...whatever it is you’re getting to try and appease me before I throw you out again.”

His words were harsh and cold as they hit Peter’s pale skin, burning him as if he’d been thrown into a pit of dying coals. The sea captain sighed, turning and walking out to go find whatever it was he was looking for.

He’s really not worth it. He has everything he could ever want, and I do believe I don’t fit into that category anymore.

The library was locked, but that wasn’t any sort of obstacle to him. As he stepped inside, however, a few nagging thoughts began to appear in the back of his mind.

Perhaps he locked it so he wouldn’t come in. He couldn’t keep himself from it, he didn’t have the willpower, but if he couldn’t get in it was all moot.

He selected a few books that he recalled Jonah enjoying in years past, as well as a few bound copies of stories that had been gifts from the captain himself—he was fairly certain Jonah had never touched them, but seeing as they contained personal statements they would likely be quite useful. As he crossed the floor of the darkened library, he stopped in quiet surprise.

Someone was crying.

“...Jonah, oh, god, I—”

He was upstairs faster than his legs could carry him, fairly certain that he’d used the Lonely as a bypass to the need to walk up the stairs even if it had happened so quickly that he couldn’t remember.

Jonah was curled up in a ball in bed, bloodied hands hiding his face as he sobbed. His whole body was shaking; he seemed so small and vulnerable in that moment that Peter felt some strange protective force rise within his chest at the sight. The books were deposited unceremoniously on the floor as the captain rushed forward and began to stroke Jonah’s hair.

“Easy, easy,” he whispered. “No need to work yourself up over this, JoJ—Jonah. Steady breaths.”

“I thought you’d left again,” Jonah whimpered pathetically. “I—I didn’t mean what I said, Peter. I need you. I do need you. I—I’m obstinate and pathetic, I am, I know it…”

Peter’s heart felt like it had crumpled in his chest.

“No, no, shh, calm down,” he insisted, head spinning. “I’m not leaving, Jonah. I’m right here, and I’m going to take care of you. You’re not pathetic, not now.”

Peter bent and picked up a book from the ground as Jonah clung to him.

I don’t want to do this, but...this will help him.

“Lie back,” he insisted softly. “I’ll read to you, alright? Take it in and let yourself heal.”

Jonah slowly leaned back against the pillows, keeping a hand on Peter just in case. As the captain began to read, the older Brit found himself unable to stay awake; his eyelids shut, and eventually he was soundly asleep.

“Thank goodness,” Peter sighed quietly, looking down at Jonah and closing his book before giving him a kiss on the forehead. “Rest well, my little JoJo. I’ll be here when you wake.”


	13. Flux and Flow Eli_Finch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Elias share a dance, in their own strange way

The air is cold in Peter’s lungs and fog curls along the deck of the Tundra. The waves are unusually quiet as they lap at the edge of the ship, as if they recognize what has occured tonight. Below deck, Peter knows that the crew is drinking heavily and talking animatedly as the relief of having finished their latest sacrifice rolls over them. As such, Peter is on the deck trying to relish the loneliness just a bit longer. He finds all that camaraderie between the crew ... unpleasant and he wants to be alone as possible.

Elias rarely cares what Peter wants and the hair on his neck rises as he feels Elias's eye on him. Trust the old bastard to have the world's worst timing, ruining Peter's savoring of his latest meal. Of course, given that it's Elias, it's very well possible that he timed it like this to interrupt Peter's blissful loneliness. Still, Peter has to admit that Elias might just be checking up on him out of concern. He scoffs at that - he is able to take care of himself perfectly well, and it's only been, what, two months since he's talked to him? Peter frowns - it might be three, and he hasn’t seen Elias in at least six months. He supposes that that's not very considerate of him. Peter has a hard time grasping why that would matter to Elias anyway. Just because he doesn't miss him doesn't mean he doesn’t love him. As he thinks this, he can feel Elias's eyes relax their gaze on him. Whether it’s because he's gotten the reassurance he needs or has noticed Peter shifting uncomfortably he's not certain. Elias is always so coy about the full extent of what he can See and Know. Peter sighs and snuffs out his pipe.

“I love you too, you know.”

Out here in the middle of the Atlantic, where the Tundra and Peter both feel so small, the words feel too loud. As his I love you echoes across the waves he whispers, “I promise I'll visit when I’m home next.”

He can still feel Elias’s eyes on him but it feels softer and less intrusive now, though perhaps he's just getting used to that feeling of being seen again. As they stand there in silence, Peter starts to hum. It's a sea shanty and a love song - the love in the song is the sea but when your lover is a force of nature himself the difference hardly matters. As he continues to hum he puts his arms out, at Elias's height and where his waist would be. Usually Elias leads when they dance; he’s much more graceful and has had much more practice than Peter. All the same, Peter has learned from him and he begins to slowly dance, just him and the fog. He feels Elias’s eyes twirl around him and god he feels like such a lovesick fool. He’s always been a fool for Elias, though, and he hopes at least he isn’t laughing at him right now.

Thousands of miles away, Elias Bouchard does laugh, but it's the soft and fond laugh that comes when you’ve known someone for far too long. “Oh Peter. A sea shanty, really?,” he says. Smiling, he begins to hum as he dances alone in his office.


	14. come back for me LonesomeDreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonah Magnus finds out that Peter Lukas has died. In this case, though, Jonah unravels a little more than anyone expected him to.  
> Okay, okay, I know this is like. Absolutely not in character for either man but it was late and I was in a mood and this happened. This is the only story in this series that is more of an alternate storyline to the rest of what I've written, but this is where it would fit chronologically amongst the others. As you can see, I do a great job of being consistent with my storylines.

He’s gone, you know.

The Beholding echoed in his mind; he let the thought fall flat for several minutes, busying himself with his last few papers, before realization seemed to hit him and his face drained of the little color it had.

“...Peter?”

The Beholding gave him no response, which was a response in and of itself. There was no familiar dog-whistle static to fill his ears; no fog came drifting into his vision as it so often had before.

“He can’t be,” Jonah whispered, closing his eyes as if their burning bright blue would show him something he didn’t want to see. “He—”

But he wasn’t stupid. If anything, he had learned that over his time on earth. The Beholding was never wrong with this sort of thing—never.

The chill of the Lonely, the familiar static and fog of the man he’d been so in love—or whatever—with, seemed to fill his entire being within the space of a trivial second and a half. He let himself go, let the fog envelop his body, closed his ears to the shrieking static and with the strongest bit of his power forced the Eye to unwillingly bend to the will of the Lonely as it absorbed him wholly.

He found himself amongst the waves, able to stand on his feet but unable to see the shore and unknowing of where Peter—well, Peter’s body—was. Cold water lapped against his legs, the dampness seeping into his soul; it was the first time for Jonah that the water in the Lonely had ever had a sensation or feel to it.

He became distinctly aware, too, that he was in his own body again—impossible, certainly, he didn’t know how, but he was. Tired blue eyes, lacking the shine they’d carried for so many years, gazed down at plump white hands that had barely done a day’s work in their life. One hand went to his throat, feeling at the familiar cravat there; it was all familiar, every bit of it, a familiarity he’d been longing for and yet it all seemed wrong.

I am here, and he is not. I have myself, I am myself, and he is absent and gone and d—

His cardinal fear.

It always came back to him, always circled around and swooped down and stole from his earth. Magnus found himself laughing weakly, uncontrollably, falling to his knees in the salty water as tears began to fall like rain.

“Not him, not him too, not P—”

He couldn’t even say the name. A bitter sob wrenched itself from his lips.

“Leave me be! LEAVE ME BE!”

The Eye was torn from his body, from his soul, like a flap of skin torn from an open wound; he screamed in agony, wallowing in the pain of it all and begging the clouded skies for death. He had never begged before, or wanted so deeply to die, but the world seemed to be tinged differently. It was all strange and foreign and bitterly painful.

Numbly, he rose to his feet; every sensation was dulled and muted, as if he were drowning. He was drowning—drowning in sorrow, drowning in his own self-pity and hatred for the world and a grief he never thought he’d feel.

“...Peter? Peter, I know you’re there…”

He can’t be gone. I am here. I cannot be here without him.

Blindly, Jonah took to wandering the Lonely; the Eye couldn’t get to him there, and the hold of the Watcher’s Crown broke down as he drove himself to near death. The bond was severed and cut, the withdrawal from the Eye sending Jonah into a spiral of hunger and weakness, but he would not stop. He never stopped looking. It was all he had, in the end, and perhaps that made it his fate—to roam the Lonely, forever searching for what he would never find. He forced himself to believe that Peter wasn’t gone, that the captain was alive and well and out there somewhere in the vast expanse of water and land the Lonely had become; the damage to his psyche was so great that it was likely permanent, something that had changed him forever.

Once, he found Peter’s cap floating in the water. It became a constant in his hands, clutched in shaking fingers as a hoarse warble of a voice repeatedly called out the name of the owner of the cap.

He is out there, looking for me. I will find him. I will!

“I’m coming, Peter. I’m coming.”

~XXXXX~

When Peter Lukas awoke, it was to searing pain throughout his entire body and a gnawing hunger from the entity he served. He barely had time to take in the surroundings of the Lonely before he’d phased back into the real world in search of a new victim to sate the appetite.  
One poor soul had made the mistake of asking him for directions, and they were gone. Relief shuddered through his veins as the throbbing dizziness went away and calm took its place; he next found himself a sandwich and some coffee, enough to tide him over for a while.

I ought to find Jonah. He’ll have known, of course, whether or not that rotten little Archivist told him.

He had expected, of course, to be met with little fanfare at the Institute, but there was even less reaction than he had imagined. He thought nothing of it—until he had asked an intern where he could find Elias Bouchard, and the girl had told him that she was new and had only heard tales of the man who was supposedly her boss as he had been absent for quite some time.

It was like a cold stake to the heart. Lukas was more than aware that Jonah was hardly the sort of person to take his own life, and Elias Bouchard’s body had been in fine shape—there was no reason for him to have body-hopped again so soon, and even if he had done so the new man would have been around the Institute. There was part of him, however, that did fear the worst—the part of him that looked at the scar on his palm, from Jonah’s letter-opener, or that felt the scar on his chest from where an angry Jonah had stabbed him with part of a broken cocktail glass—, and it scared him to admit that he was frightened.

It was only upon his walk home that things began to clear up. The fog of the Lonely had descended upon his shoulders, obscuring him from passers-by and thanking him—in the warmest way the Lonely could—for the two lovely people he’d taken. It had been such a wonderful treat, really, to have both at the same time. So much fear, and—

...two?

Peter’s eyes widened.

“...Jonah. It’s got Jonah, I’ve—”

He disappeared right off of the street and found himself in the familiar waves with no time to waste, sloshing forward at the fastest run he could muster.

“Jonah! JONAH!”

Let him be safe. Let him be alive.

“Bring me Jonah Magnus!” he yelled into the air, throwing his arms up. “BRING HIM TO ME!”

With an angry growl, he forced the Lonely to contort to his wishes. The landscape around him seemed to bend; waves flickered and glitched and disappeared for whole seconds as his powers churned and a bead of sweat rolled down his face and everything shifted.

When it all stopped, when all was quiet, he was not alone. Ten feet in front of him was the rail-thin body of Jonah Magnus, the man in question stumbling along and calling out weakly for Peter.

“I’m here, Jonah, I’m here!”

All the words in the world could not have helped Peter as he ran to Jonah’s side, nausea pooling in his stomach as the blood in his veins turned to terror and ice. Even though he had never before seen the man in his original body, he knew he’d found who he was looking for. The Lonely never lied about that—it didn’t have a reason to.

“Is that you, Peter?” Jonah whispered, gazing at him with a glassy-eyed stare. He still clutched the hat in his hands, as if it were his only lifeline; Peter slowly tugged the weathered object away and placed it on his own head.

He’s so thin, Christ almighty. Has he—

His heart skipped a beat.

He’s been here. He hasn’t fed the Eye. For however long I’ve been gone, he’s been here calling for me.

He didn’t need Jonah’s gift of the Beholding to confirm what he knew. As the slightly shorter man buckled and collapsed, he effortlessly caught him and lifted him to his chest.

“I’m here, Jonah. It’s me. It’s Peter,” he whispered helplessly, and his voice cracked and his cheeks burned with shame. “I’m—Jonah, I’m—”

“Please come back to me, Peter,” Jonah whimpered, and the words echoed through the Lonely in a way that tore Peter’s heart in two and drew an angry yell from his lips.

“LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!” he screamed, voice booming, and it was the first time he could remember being angry. “LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO HIM!”

Look what I’ve done. This is my god, my entity. I am the avatar, and I brought this upon him. He’s crazy with grief. His mind’s been broken by my entity.

“Jonah, please, come back to me,” he whispered, tears pricking at his eyes. “Please, just—rest, if you must, but come back to me.”

Jonah’s eyes closed at that, a contented smile coming over his face as he slipped into the blisses of an unconsciousness he had chased since the day his world had stood still. Peter placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, sniffling quietly.

“You’re not here, but I’ll bring you back,” he said softly. “I promise, Jonah. I’ve come back for you, and you’ll come back for me.”

Without another moment’s hesitation, the pair vanished from the mist. Anyone walking down the street in London that night would have recounted a most strange tale: a tall, broad man, carrying the almost-lifeless body of another man who was sickly thin, hurrying down the sidewalk. Fog nipped at his heels; mist swirled around his head. It was odd, yes, but not that odd on the outside to most Londoners.

The feeling, though? Nobody forgot that.

Nobody forgot the feeling that accompanied the two—a rolling, wave-like loneliness that battered the soul and demanded submission, and an anguish so strong the world seemed to cease all actions in its face. It was a feeling that demanded to be obeyed, and when it was gone you felt the need to apologize to yourself for the hurt the emotion had caused.

But Peter Lukas never forgave himself


	15. red skies in mourning thejoyofbecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary:
> 
> as jonah's best-laid plans finally come to fruition, he prepares to celebrate with his only constant.
> 
> but his only constant is dead.
> 
> this first chapter is best accompanied by shostakovich's jazz suite no.2: 6. waltz ii on repeat  
> (See the end of the work for more notes.)
> 
> Chapter 1: hollow victory

the needle drops purposefully onto the record. a slight static fills the air.

elias bouchard waits.

no.

jonah magnus waits.

shostakovich creeps into the room, haltingly at first, then filling it with something lush and melancholy. he imagines a chill will follow soon after. peter never could resist a good waltz. not with jonah, at least.

it was unlike him to disappear into the Lonely for so long, unlike him not to seek resolution over their latest little spat. peter was much more likely to pout at sea, where he could at least feel a little shiver down his spine whenever jonah chose to check in on him. they both knew the Lonely was not built for Beholding. he must be feeling particularly tender after jonah’s latest conquest.

peter will get over it. peter will come 'round. peter always does.

jonah hums as the jazz suite begins to pick up, setting out two delicate glasses on the desk. the office is pristine, if not slightly utilitarian: old books line the walls floor to ceiling, save for the odd keepsake. the record player sits beside a small black and white photo of two young men standing before a vast ship, smiling, in their own ways. 

“whiskey or champagne?” he muses to the air. peter must be playing hard to get again. “you do so love to brood over a stiff drink, but…”

he smirks widely as he Sees his Archivist's hands grasp the Statement that will seal their fates.

“...i rather think celebratory bubbly is in order.”

he pulls the bottle from the ice box, something old and expensive and french he’s been holding onto for some time. for this time, in fact. he uncorks it, humming louder now along with the waltz, giddy as it is morose, filling both glasses to excess before placing them dutifully on the desk.

he steadies himself against the old, sturdy chair as The Watcher’s Crown begins.

elias' lips move in tandem with jonah's words as his Archivist reads them, blue eyes closing as his true Eyes open and he is there with what remains of the man who so quaintly calls himself jonathan sims, watching his humanity slip away with every syllable of his Statement, his panic and fear sweeter to jonah than any champagne could ever be.

he feels the agony and ecstasy of reality bending around them, earth-shattering, and yet...quiet. 

jonah Looks up at the sky.

and the sky Looks back.

“peter!” he shouts, Eyes turning back to the room, a joyous yip accompanied by the waltz’s crescendo. “peter, do you feel it? peter, i’ve done it, i’ve won, i’ve - “

the office is unchanged.

and he realizes, with quiet dread, that he cannot See peter lukas anywhere.

“peter,” jonah chides, but it is the whine of elias bouchard this time, a whine his previous forms would find unbecoming, a whine that is desperate and churlish and needing . “don’t be cross with me, peter, even your God is here now, and...peter, they all are, it’s...it’s...”

jonah Looks.

and Looks.

and Looks.

he peers as far as he can into the Lonely, its mists and pits more solid than ever. the harder he Looks, the more it appears to coalesce in uncharacteristic...hostility? resentment? 

B e h o l d i n g i s n o l o n g e r w e l c o m e . 

the thought comes to him unbidden. he retreats with a dutiful bow of his head. reverence where reverence is due, and all that. 

instinctively, jonah’s Eyes fall onto his Archivist, whose eyes stream with tears as his own Eyes open wider in martin blackwood’s arms, lost deep in the throes of Beholding.

the truth floats to jonah effortlessly.

his Eyes snap shut.

jonah looks around the room. his knuckles grow white around the head of the threadbare chair that sits steadfastly before the desk. 

he crosses to the small bar and deposits the bottle of champagne neatly into the ice box again. he seizes the decanter of whiskey tightly by the throat and moves deliberately to his seat behind the desk.

shostakovich blares mournfully around him, drowning out the roars and cries of newly born beasts and the screams of their victims.

jonah sits, slowly, painfully slowly.

“i did it, peter,” he breathes.

he takes a long draught of whiskey, staring at the empty chair across from him. he begins to count the loose threads but finds himself already Knowing their number.

as Beholding binds his Archivist tighter, jonah feels the memory pressing against him, feels himself Knowing without asking, feels himself Seeing without trying, because his God is here now, he has done well, better than all the others, it is here, they are all here, a writhing mass of dread and anguish, and he must Know them, Know them all, every inch, every line... 

jonah magnus takes another swig from the decanter.

peter lukas is dead.

e grandfather clock at the other end of the office chimes eleven times. he rolls up his sleeves and sits behind his desk, the hum of the institute buzzing pleasantly beneath his soles. 

eleven o'clock on fridays are for budget reviews. 

the institute has been growing well, jonah notes to himself, blinking as the sound of horses outside overwhelms him for a moment, a memory of those earlier days rising unbidden. the buzzing beneath him becomes more concentrated and frenzied as his colleagues whisper excitedly to one another, theorizing over smirke’s most recent version of his list. he Sees himself in this same position at this same desk and this same job, but the line of his face is...different. the candles cast shadows across high cheekbones, shimmering against the premature streak of gray in his hair.

jonah Watches curiously as his first body rubs at aching temples before beginning to pour over budgets and Statements and letters and journals and

plump lips and familiar scruff press urgently at the back of his neck. 

"peter," he says politely, ink pen continuing steadily across the page as the memory fades with the sudden sensation. the sound of cars replaces those of carriages, mechanical honks filling the streets instead of restless hooves. the room has grown colder despite the summer breeze beyond the window. 

the lips linger a moment before pulling away. jonah's own lips twitch as the scraggly beard tickles across his neck. 

"budgets?" 

"budgets." 

he feels the dip of the beard again as peter nods thoughtfully to himself. perhaps he'll get the man a new pocket watch for christmas. something waterproof, with a long chain. 

jonah wonders how long it will take to lose this one at sea. 

(three days , he thinks, and this time he does start a little at the spontaneous answer to his idle pondering - he did not Ask, he did not See, he simply...Knew? he files that away for future consideration.) 

without looking up he Sees peter frown slightly as he watches jonah stiffen, spine straight, pen frozen mid-letter. he says nothing as he crosses to the office door and turns the lock before taking a seat opposite jonah at the desk. he glances at the relatively small stack of papers remaining, hope flitting across his face. 

jonah resumes writing. 

peter chews his lip thoughtfully as he settles in, chilly salt-laced air seeping into the room. he runs a thumb along the edge of jonah's desk for what feels like the hundredth time as the office window slowly frosts over. 

they sit like that for some time, jonah moving methodically from one document to another as peter waits. jonah Watches him, hungrily drinking in the image of the man in front of him: hair tousled and blown about from months spent on the open sea, salt crystals clinging to his salt-and-pepper beard, his gray eyes soft and unfocused, framed by long lashes and dark circles. 

an image deserving to be immortalized in marble. 

"it's been ages," he says finally, voice professional, as he sets the pen down. "to what do i owe the pleasure?" 

"james," peter admonishes softly. jonah blinks slowly, watching his current name form on those cherubic lips, but remains undeterred. peter had gone away, he reminds himself. peter did not say goodbye. peter did not leave a note. peter had left . 

again . 

"have things been well here?" 

"quite," jonah answers, his voice clipped as he casts his gaze over to the frost-coated window, though his Eyes remain locked on peter as if he could disappear again at any moment. 

and he could. 

peter winces slightly at the aloofness in his voice, and jonah feels a pang of regret. peter's eyes dance anxiously around the room, across rows and rows of books whose names he has already memorized from repetition, thinking of ways to buy time as he grasps for words he has never been able to find. 

jonah decides to be helpful. 

"how was your trip?" he asks lazily, as if the answer does not matter, as if he had not asked the same question dozens of times while peter sat opposite the desk with one leg draped over the other. as if he does not know these four words hold any significance to either of them. 

peter lets out a breath he had been holding without realizing it. he steals a glance at jonah, who pretends to be involved with filing away these most recent departmental budgets, allowing the rugged sailor to gaze hungrily at the ruthless scholar before him. it’s only fair that they each get their fill after so long apart, he muses. 

"...quiet," peter replies eventually, eyes still intent on the body of james wright. "it was quiet." 

jonah reclines in his chair, acutely aware of the drone of the institute pulsing through him. there is nothing quiet about Beholding, about his everquest for Knowledge. the institute is not quiet. london is not quiet.

he meets peter's gaze at last. "nowhere else quiet you could have run off to, i suppose.”

peter raises an eyebrow. jonah smirks. electricity arcs between them. 

"have you changed the locks?" 

"as if it would matter." 

"is that a yes?" 

"do i look like a monster to you?" 

“of course not.”

“of course not.”

they stare at each other. numbness creeps into jonah's hands, the Lonely's way of saying hello. Beholding rises up in his throat before he can stop it.

"did you think of me?" 

peter goes very still, but does not flinch away from those piercing blue eyes. 

"yes," he mumbles. there is something like an apology in his eyes, somewhere, hidden behind the fog. it has no shape, no words, but jonah does not need his God to find it, the little piece of peter lukas that is sorry for the way he is only because it could wound jonah. 

has wounded jonah. 

jonah crosses over to the phonograph, shuffling through a box of records. he takes a deep breath of sea air, and something like a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

“your beard needs a trim,” he remarks quietly. 

the exasperated sigh brings a true smile to his face. 

jonah selects the desired record and slides it delicately into place. he holds the needle between two fingers, watching the disc spin silently. 

“you didn't look for me.”

“you didn't leave a note.”

“james…”

jonah lets the needle fall onto the record, and the dulcet tones of a cello fade into the room. he Watches peter wrestle with himself, wanting to go to jonah, wanting to apologize, wanting to hide, wanting forgiveness, wanting, wanting, wanting - 

the clock chimes twelve times. 

jonah makes his way slowly across the room. he slides one finger beneath peter’s chin, tilting it up so he faces him, their eyes locking together again. jonah cannot hold the hunger back this time, and peter’s lips part in stunned silence. 

“leave a note next time, or i will have the locks changed the moment you’re gone.”

then he is in peter’s lap, their mouths finding each other at last. the body of james wright fits perfectly against the curve of peter’s shoulder, his collarbone, his thigh. strong arms envelop him, calloused hands on either side of his face. 

they come up for air, foreheads pressed together, shirt buttons coming undone, their breath visible in the Lonely’s chill. 

“a note,” peter breathes, his face flushed. “i can do that.”

“good.” jonah bites at peter’s neck, a little harder, causing peter to shiver beneath him. 

“bastard,” peter smiles. 

“yes,” jonah mutters, sinking his teeth in again, “you are.”

the sonata swells and the buzz of the institute fades away as the two men tangle themselves together again, hearts pounding, lips and tongues and teeth colliding, reunited in their quiet longing made realized.

**Author's Note:**

> End


End file.
